<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Smoke Of Hell by tjstar</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014966">The Smoke Of Hell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar'>tjstar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background Yennefer/Triss, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Fights, Friendship/Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Monster of the Week, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:21:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014966</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Continent is drowning in chaos since the Nilfgaardian Empire started the war with the Northern Kingdoms, killing witchers, sorceresses, elves and everyone who stands against their violent politics. Geralt is one of the few witchers who managed to survive the massacre; he’s forced to hide in the forest from the inquisition until a bloodied stranger appears on the threshold of his shack. He’s got a lute and a message for him.</p><p>Now, with the accompaniment of his new traveling companion and with an odd help of some of his old acquaintances, Geralt has to take a risk and protect The Child of Surprise and find the most experienced witcher to try and stop the war.</p><p>It’s gonna be a long way, full of blood, monsters and losses.</p><p>And the witchers <em>never</em> retire.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Fuck.”</p><p>“Rude, but it describes the situation quite accurately.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>The outskirts of Vizima, Temeria</em> </b>
</p><p>A meager fire licks the wood before dying. Geralt spits out a curse and uses Igni to bring it back to life again. And again. And again. Maybe it’s just not his day. A couple. What feels like two hundred years. A sparkle runs up the branch in a fireplace, leaving a red tail and igniting a pile of dry brushwood; Geralt outstretches his hands, almost touching the flames. He doesn’t feel cold, he doesn’t feel warm either; maybe it’s all because of the witcher’s stamina, maybe he simply doesn’t care about his physical needs anymore. </p><p>Although he <em> does </em> care about the knocking on the door. He’s not expecting any guests; he’s never been quite friendly, and he’s been living in this den in the forest long enough to earn a reputation of a loner. A week, a month, a year? Time doesn’t matter anymore. </p><p>The knocking turns to hysterical staccato, Geralt can hear the screams now. Not the roaring of yet another beast. Well, it’s a <em> good </em> evening then. He eyes his swords — he’s fast enough to snatch either of them — and throws the door open. </p><p>“Who are you—”</p><p>Geralt swallows a metaphorical question mark when there’s a semi-conscious guy in his hands, his head lolls to his shoulder, and there’s a leather case on the strap behind his back. His bloodied fingers are trembling so badly he can’t get a proper hold on Geralt’s forearm. There’s the odor of beer, sweat and stale bread mixed with the ladies perfume. He instinctively tries to push a beaten guy out of the door, back into the darkness, but he suddenly opens his eyes and wheezes,</p><p>“Ger-alt… Help.”</p><p>Nothing more. </p><p>At first, Geralt thinks he’s dead. But dead bodies used to lie still, and they don’t breathe until… Until they morph to something worse than just a human being. But his medallion is so peacefully quiet. </p><p>“Are you really—”</p><p>This is the second sentence he can’t finish tonight — he hasn’t had much practice in talking recently. And this, now undoubtedly unconscious, guy is not a good interlocutor either. The blood from his busted nose drips onto the floorboards, gathering in the cracks like the globes of quicksilver. Geralt is about to let him crash down and hurt himself even more, he’s about to give up on a sudden bout of anger clouding his mind. But his rational side doesn’t let him do that. Geralt takes a deep breath; a plethora of poignant smells makes the mist of fury dissipate, leaving him numb and devastated. He lays the guy on the floor, closer to the fireplace and looks for the rope.</p><p>This guy knows his name, and Geralt doesn’t like that at all. </p><p>“This is too much,” Geralt sighs as he twists the stranger’s pockets inside out. He can’t complain about a little robbery while he’s out cold, right? He <em> is </em> cold also. His skin is pale with bloody smudges all over the lower half of his face, his hair is disheveled, with dirt and fallen leaves are stuck in it. His breathing is laboured as if he’s been running for hours.</p><p>There’s nothing but a few pieces of rye bread in his pockets. </p><p>“Are you really this dumb?” Geralt continues his investigation and eventually finds a dagger tucked into the bootleg. “Or not?” he hums, rubbing the stubble on his chin. </p><p>The guy moans faintly when Geralt smacks him across his cheeks, staining his own palms with blood. His neck is bruised, the collar of his blue doublet is ripped along with the left sleeve, but these clothes don’t look cheap at all. This battered case doesn’t look cheap at all. Geralt unties thick laces and peeks into it just to find the lute there, and that’s an expensive thing as well; the wood and the strings begin to sing as soon at Geralt takes the instrument out of the case. The polishing of the soundboard and the ornaments carved around the soundhole remind him of the elven custom work. Where did he get such a trophy? Geralt lays the lute aside, rummaging in the case, but there’s just a spare set of strings and a bag with the ridiculously small amount of coin. The guy who’s bleeding out alone in the forest and carrying a lute might actually be bad news.</p><p>He might also be a fantastic idiot. And he definitely got beaten <em> not </em> by evil spirits.  </p><p>Geralt is waiting for him to wake up, while recalling those times when the witchers could live among the humans in peace, although not so long, but that was an evolution in their relationship. And now there’s the regression with constant wars and witch-hunting. And witcher-hunting. It makes his old scars itch. </p><p>Peasants used to poke him with their pitchforks, too frightened to talk to him. They used to call him the Butcher of Blaviken.</p><p>The guy on the floor certainly doesn’t look like an assassin — he doesn’t look like a fighter at all. Geralt keeps watching him for an hour or two until his eyelids twitch and he tries to sit up, pressing his hand to the back of his head. </p><p>“Oh gods,” he groans. “Geralt?”</p><p>He pronounces Geralt’s name so casually it makes him clench his teeth way too tightly. And it pisses him off way too quickly and way too badly; he grabs his silver sword and presses its tip to the guy’s neck. </p><p>“Tell me who are you, and what the fuck are you doing here,” he growls out. And maybe, just maybe, he’s not aware of his own strength, because there’s a fresh trickle of blood running out from a small cut in the guy’s Adam’s apple. </p><p>“Can we… Stop this penetration?” he blurts out, arms raised high. “I’m… I’m weaponless, I swear,” he notices his dagger on the floor. “Huh, that’s mine,” he avoids looking into Geralt’s eyes as he adds, “you can take it like a… Gift.”</p><p>And he repeats this “I came in peace” mantra.</p><p>“Who are you?” Geralt removes the sword from his throat. The guy presses the cuff of his shirt to the bleeding line. It’s almost like a shaving cut. If he already knows what shaving actually is. “I’m not repeating my questions.”</p><p>The guy blinks. </p><p>“Really?”</p><p>Geralt squeezes the handle of the sword again. His guest doesn’t react to silver the way a monster would, which makes everything odder. </p><p>“Answer.”</p><p>He scrubs the blood underneath his nose.        </p><p>“I’m Jaskier.”</p><p>“Why not Dandelion?” Geralt asks, recalling to his linguistic skills.</p><p>“Because I’m a forget-me-not actually. Well, figuratively. If we’re talking about flowers,” Jaskier says somewhat proudly. “Eh, you look like you’d never tell the difference between a rose and a thistle… Music, my music, Geralt. My ballads are well-known all across the Continent, I’ve got the muses of royal families…”</p><p>Geralt raises his hand.</p><p>“Enough.”</p><p>This is ridiculous, and this doesn’t match the scenario in Geralt’s head; this <em> Jaskier </em> is not terrified enough, or maybe he’s just concussed.</p><p>“You’re Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says. “The witcher. I can’t believe my eyes!.. Your hair is whiter than I thought.”</p><p>He moves, sitting on his heels and reaching his hand to touch Geralt’s loose strands; Geralt jerks back, but Jaskier’s fingers brush over his forearm. He’s warm. Living. And impossibly annoying.</p><p>“Don’t fucking touch me!”</p><p>“Why are you so angry anyway? Do you really think I would have come there all by myself? I’d never volunteer for anything like that,” Jaskier scrambles away from him. “This wasn’t even a part of my plan!”</p><p>“What was your plan then?”</p><p>Does he have enough brain cells to build it up?</p><p>“To perform,” Jaskier says nonchalantly. “To get drunk. Maybe get laid. As you see I got two out of three. And then…” he points at Geralt’s sword. “Can you do me a favor and kill that bastard, that horse ass, that incredibly vile man Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris?”</p><p>“Can you shut up before I shove your lute down your throat?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, sure,” Jaskier nods. “Today’s not your day. I got it.”</p><p>For the first time, Geralt has to agree with him.</p><p>“That’s what I thought.”</p><p>He then takes a bottle of his test-potion that is supposed to detect all the silver-resilient monsters. He shoves the bottle into Jaskier’s face, nearly smashing his nose again. </p><p>“Drink.”</p><p>“Is this a poison?”</p><p>“Depends.” </p><p>He expects more resistance, but Jaskier drinks the liquid obediently, choking on a mouthful, but swallowing it. There’s the blush on his cheeks, his eyes are all teary, but he’s certainly not dying. </p><p>“Oh my, that’s some strong… Water? Can we repeat it one day? Will you join me? Geralt?”</p><p>Geralt hits the wall with his fist. </p><p>“Unbelievable.”</p><p>Jaskier is all sympathy as he says,</p><p>“Indeed, I said the same when Valdo Marx’s — may the woodworms chew the holes in his lute — when his friends caught me off guard behind that tavern! You know, I don’t like Posada, no offence, but something is always happening there. Just like that one time, when a dear friend of mine…”</p><p>Geralt shakes his head. </p><p>“What did you say?”</p><p>“My friend…” Jaskier opens his mouth in surprise. “You’re listening?”</p><p>“No, you’re speaking nonsense. But again, you said you were in <em> Posada?” </em></p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>“We’re in Vizima now,” Geralt says. Carefully, not to make a very <em> sensitive </em> Jaskier die of a heart attack. “You got any explanations?”</p><p>Jaskier, surprisingly, does have explanations. </p><p>“Now I got it — that’s why I felt so ill. I’m not good with all the speeds and swaying,” he rubs his stomach. “So. We’re in Vizima. And my favorite bag with my nice clothing is <em> still </em> in Posada. Geralt, forget about Valdo Marx, I mean, you can kill him later if you want, but now send me back to Posada, because I’m not losing my things!”</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p>“Rude, but it describes the situation quite accurately.”</p><p>This is the end — Jaskier lost his mind, and Geralt will never know what actually happened, but he tries again, calmer this time.</p><p>“I want to know everything you remember.”</p><p>He regrets saying <em> everything. </em> </p><p>Jaskier remembers a <em> lot of things. </em> </p><p>Geralt has to interrupt him every so often, because Jaskier is so focused on unnecessary details like his breakfast, way too cold water in the inn that is <em> not so good for his throat, </em>a creaky bed that would ruin his disguise.</p><p>“Can you be more informative?” </p><p>“About <em> what?” </em> </p><p>Oh, he really doesn’t understand. Geralt sighs. </p><p>“What do you remember? After getting all the shit kicked out of you.”</p><p>Jaskier raises his head up, looking at the ceiling. There’s no smile on his face, no fear, just amazement. </p><p>“I remember the woman. She was young, but… She looked so powerful, so mighty, so <em> dominant. </em>Uh, Geralt, you should’ve seen her!” Jaskier clenches his fists in excitement. “Black hair, and her eyes… Her eyes were truly devilish. “Find Geralt of Rivia,” she said. And I don’t remember what happened next, everything just went black,” he scrubs his nape. “I woke up in the forest. Saw the shack, turned out it was yours.”</p><p>Geralt wants to grab him by the collar again and shake him until his memory returns, but his intuition says that he’s not lying. Jaskier yawns. </p><p>“Did she say something else?”</p><p>“I was drunk, in case you didn’t know,” Jaskier says. “I wasn’t ready for… This. By the way, I’m perplexed and hurt, bear with me!” he yawns again, covering his mouth with his palm. “But at least, Valdo’s sidekicks didn’t break my lute, and I still have my money. I’m not giving it to you, don’t even look at me like <em> that, </em> Geralt. Would you mind if I sleep there while you’re trying to stomach my tales?”</p><p>The last thing Geralt needs is Jaskier sprawled across his floor. But Jaskier doesn’t wait for his permission, curling into himself and placing his hand onto his lute protectively; he doesn’t ask for a bed, for anything, just passing out as soon as his head touches the floorboards. </p><p>The fire burns brighter in the fireplace. </p><p>Jaskier sleeps.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>“Wake up, the sun’s rising,” Geralt pats Jaskier’s shoulder. “Wake up.”</p><p>Jaskier groans sleepily, then rubs his forehead and sits up; he squints at the transparent rays of light coming through a tiny window — Geralt doesn’t like being exposed. From where he stands next to the table, he can hear Jaskier’s stomach rumble.</p><p>“No breakfast I’m assuming?” </p><p>Geralt points at the bread he fished out of Jaskier’s pockets. </p><p>“You can eat these.” </p><p>There’s the well-water in the jug, and Geralt doesn’t have any food except the remains of a rabbit stew; he thinks twice before offering it to Jaskier. But despite his worn-out aristocratic look, he’s rather unpretentious, shoving the chunks of meat into his mouth as if he’s been starving for years. As soon as he regains his energy, he begins to talk again; the sun rises higher, and they have to hurry up — Geralt is not fond of surprise meetings in the forest. He’s reached his limit of talking for today. For the upcoming week, probably; he’s a good listener, but Jaskier babbles all the time. A few hours of him sleeping were a blessing.</p><p>“I can’t believe you’re going to guide me through the forest,” Jaskier swipes the crumbs off the table. “Hey, do you really think you’re gonna need these swords this soon?” </p><p>“You never know what is waiting for you outside.”</p><p>It’s true. It’s his instinct. </p><p>Jaskier’s facial expression is unreadable, but his skin reeks of adrenaline. He packs his lute and takes his dagger — Geralt doesn’t need it, it’s like a toy for a child, only good for a fight with local drunks. Which Jaskier had lost already.</p><p>They leave the shack together.</p><p>It’s a cold morning, the fog lies low on shabby strands of grass and moss. It’s gonna be a long way from the outskirts of Vizima to the center, and Geralt doubts that Jaskier is good at topography. It was a wild night, after all. Geralt still has some questions to ask, so maybe a little walk will make Jaskier’s head more clear. Geralt has seen a lot of people with trippy thoughts, but Jaskier is just unique with his non-linear thinking. With the double scabbard behind his back, Geralt feels like Jaskier’s bodyguard, and it bites at his dignity — but it wasn’t Jaskier’s fault that he passed out on his threshold.</p><p>“Why are you hiding?” Jaskier asks. A tree branch crunches under his foot, startling a little gray bird. It lets out a short squeal and flies away. </p><p>And Geralt says,</p><p>“Because I’m good at it.”</p><p>After the events in Blaviken, his life changed — and then his life changed once more when Nilfgaard conquered most part of the Northern Kingdoms, with all of their forces. They started to kill everyone — witchers, sorceresses, elves, Geralt lost count of the allies he had to bury. Under the Nilfgaardian oppression, people were afraid to hire the witchers; there were no contracts, no coin. For Geralt especially — forked tongues spread the rumors twice as fast. </p><p>And yet here he is, protecting Jaskier from insects like a guard dog. How pathetic.</p><p>“The Continent needs your help,” Jaskier says as he jumps over the rock. “I heard a lot of things about the witchers,” he jumps over another one. “You’re not as cruel as people portray you.” </p><p>“I made you bleed.”</p><p>“Well, this is what you learned in Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier shrugs. Geralt grabs him by the back of his torn doublet, hissing,</p><p>“How did you know about Kaer Morhen?”</p><p>“I’m a bard, Geralt,” Jaskier slaps the lute hanging behind his back. “I’m attentive to details. And some people say things they’re not supposed to. A golden material for the songs,” he winks at Geralt. As if Geralt can’t snap his neck with one hand. </p><p>“Find a better excuse,” Geralt grumbles. And lets Jaskier go.</p><p>“People in Posada were terrified,” Jaskier continues. “Ladies there were afraid to leave their houses at night, because of… Evil creatures. The pikes with the spikes in the river or, like, flying drakes. They saw them! I wanted to learn more about it, oh, can you comment on it?”</p><p>“They don’t exist.”</p><p>“Ladies in Posada?”</p><p>“The creatures you’re talking about.”</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t even look disappointed.</p><p>“But there are still the ones who exist, right?”</p><p>Geralt gives him a restrained nod. </p><p>And maybe he’s walking way too fast, because Jaskier is running next to him, describing the breeds of the monsters occupying the Continent — Jaskier has never seen any of them, but it seems that he believes in everything he hears from his “muses” and their friends.</p><p>“I’ve got an idea,” Jaskier says after the hours of walking. “It’s just brilliant. As the one who gets to meet the nobles and their… Relatives, and who is also well-known for his triumphant performances in the best taverns of the Continent, I can fix your reputation. Build a new identity,” he stops, facing Geralt. “The Butcher of Blaviken is a myth. The Continent needs to get ready to meet The White Wolf!” he spreads his arms wide, as if to hug Geralt. </p><p>Geralt just walks past him. </p><p>“You got beaten by a bunch of imbeciles, so stop bragging. I insist.”</p><p>“Yes, but for ruining Valdo Marx’s reputation! It worked!” Jaskier squeals happily. “Now every lady knows that he can’t hit high notes and how tiny his…”</p><p>“Jaskier, one more word about that troubadour, and I swear I’ll finish what his friends started in Posada.”</p><p>“But he’s bleating like a goat,” Jaskier purses his lips. “Hard to call those sounds a decent singing.”</p><p>“You’ve been warned.”</p><p>“So we’re traveling together now?”</p><p>“No. I’m showing you the way out of Vizima and never seeing you again.”</p><p>Geralt’s thoughts swirl around Jaskier’s words about the young woman who transferred him to the forest: black hair and devilish eyes. He knows a sorceress who matches this portrait — one of a kind, Yennefer of Vengerberg, his old… Friend? Colleague? He saved her life when she was too weak to use her spells and get rid of the ropes squeezing her body; she saved his life when he was dying with the arrow in his neck. They’ve been covering each other’s backs for a long time after their first meeting, but then Geralt had to hide deep in the forest, chased by the inquisitors. Geralt touches the scar between his collarbones, his body is like a diary of war with the horrific stories carved all across it. Lines, welts, holes. </p><p>Yennefer wouldn’t have portalled Jaskier to Vizima with no reason, he had so much fun getting his ass kicked in Posada, it seems. Jaskier looks innocent, but Geralt keeps waiting for him to fail, because he knows too much. Too much to stay alive and to be such a blabbermouth.</p><p>“Jaskier,” he hollers. </p><p>He’s playing a catchy song; what a sunny accompaniment for a gloomy day, Geralt hates it. He needs silence to curb his thoughts.          </p><p>They’re approaching the swamp, and Geralt can only smirk sarcastically as Jaskier attempts to not stain his clothing even more. Dry branches peek out from the muddy depths here and there like gnarled fingers, hooking their sleeves and their hair, as if begging their bones to stay there for forever. </p><p>Jaskier is far too bright and optimistic for this landscape. </p><p>Geralt’s right knee creaks in unison with his thoughts. An old injury that can’t be healed; it had become a bother a few decades ago, reminding of itself after the long walks. </p><p>The medallion on his chest vibrates. </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats. </p><p>Jaskier stops, listening to the hush intently.</p><p>“Do you near it? Nothing. A wild nature should not be this quiet. It even makes my ears ring.”</p><p>Geralt nods, praying for this idiot to not turn around right now. There are the ripples on the surface right behind him; Geralt wants to warn him, but Jaskier eventually notices the flat waves and looks down at the murky water splashing by his feet. He opens his mouth again, but Geralt’s reflexes don’t let him say a word — Geralt sprints up, shoving Jaskier aside as hard as he can. He hears him land somewhere in the withered bushes as the monster tears its way out through the sludge, erupting the fountains of foul water. The creature shows itself in all its stinky glory — all eyes and legs, with its ugly head perched lowly on its shoulders. It hisses, crawling like a spider across the swamp, getting ready to attack Geralt. He pulls out his silver sword, keeping the distance, so the monster can only drool and clank its fangs. </p><p>Geralt’s knee pulsates with pain, the joint is burning, making him limp. The monster’s claws are about to get painted with blood.  </p><p>“Geralt?”</p><p>“Shut up, it’s just a kikimora,” Geralt growls, thrusting his hand into his bag and squeezing a bottle with potion. He only has a second to take the cork out with his teeth and gulp down the liquid. His mutated system consumes the potion, the veins bulged on his hands turn navy blue. He feels powerful, he would have risked and allowed the kikimora to get closer if he’d been alone there. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jaskier, sitting under the burnt tree, knees pulled to his chest, protecting his lute like the only treasure. </p><p>Geralt lets out a low roar before his sword hits the kikimora’s chest, slashing it like a pie, letting the disgusting filling spill out. The blood is dark red, almost black. The creature hisses and trudges forward, aiming for Geralt’s injured leg to make him lose the balance. Geralt can’t feel any pain at the moment, there is only the desire to defeat the monster and chop off its head as he was taught during the trials. An agonized kikimora seems to understand that Geralt is not an easy target, unlike Jaskier, so it slugs towards him, getting distracted for a brief moment. Geralt leaps over the piles of swampy dirt, sliding down the path made by the kikimora’s claws. </p><p>And decapitates it. </p><p>The force of the blow makes the head jump up like a ball, and Jaskier gets up on his feet hastily as the side of the skull hits his toes. Geralt knows that he looks like a monster himself, with thick threads of dark vessels popped all around his plain black eyes, with far too white skin and a desperate grin splitting his face — he’s half pleased with himself, half disgusted. </p><p>Jaskier looks at him with his eyes wide open, breathing heavily and still, still clutching his lute. And then he says,</p><p>“I’ve never seen anything as impressive as your fight in my entire life.” </p><p>His ribcage keeps jerking frantically as he leans against the tree. </p><p>“I used to get paid for that,” Geralt rasps out. </p><p>Jaskier raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“You saved my life. How do you want <em> me </em> to pay for that?”</p><p>“Just stop talking.”</p><p>He wraps the kikimora’s head into the cloth and hides it in his bag. Jaskier is still shaking, spreading invisible tendrils of fear. Why the hell he doesn’t say that he’s scared, that he doesn’t want to keep a company for a witcher; he’s in awe, following Geralt step to step. He’s shocked — of course — and Geralt is tired of him already. The thought of leaving Jaskier in Vizima makes him feel better; as a minstrel, he’s not going to stay there, definitely. And Geralt is going to find Yennefer; he’s been pretty distanced from any public life recently. For a semicentenary, give or take. </p><p>“It’s good that you’re keeping this horrific souvenir,” Jaskier says as they climb out of yet another shallow gully on their way. “And your eyes are as bright as amber again. You’d look more like a knight if you weren’t covered in mud and guts,” he sighs. “But I’m working with what I have.” </p><p>“You’re working on… What?” </p><p>“On the song about The Mighty Witcher,” Jaskier responds. “It’s time to get all of your rewards, Geralt.” </p><p>Oh well, Jaskier has certainly hit his head way too hard. </p><p>They step on the main street of Vizima at noon. Their appearance might be terrifying for the passers-by; men look at Geralt with the aggression mixed with fear in their eyes, and women drop their baskets and groceries before running away. Their kids laugh and point their fingers at Jaskier. </p><p>“Hypocrites,” Jaskier comments. “Too afraid to admit their cowardice, but they would gladly stab your back.” </p><p>This is probably the first thing Jaskier said seriously; Geralt gives him an approving look — he’s been in such situations more than once. Geralt increases his pace when he sees a young mother covering the eyes of her son not to let him see the witcher. </p><p>“Is the other man his slave?” the boy asks, peeking through her fingers on his face. </p><p>“What?” Jaskier turns to him abruptly. “This witcher saved my life today! And he protected all of you, despite your ignorance, from the kikimora,” he points at Geralt’s bag. “That’s its head. Check it if you’re brave enough.”</p><p>Jaskier’s standing in the middle of the street, people gather around him, eyeing Geralt as if he’s an outlandish animal. Or a freak. </p><p>“Jaskier.”</p><p>“I just want them to know the truth!” Jaskier exclaims. “You’ve been saving the humanity for decades, and this is what you get just because of the Nilfgaardian politics?”</p><p>“It’s not working like that,” Geralt tugs at his sleeve, losing his temper. </p><p>“You’ve got the head of their enemy!” </p><p>Geralt is not a professional at detecting the humans’ age, but he can say that Jaskier hasn’t even been born when the Nilfgaardian cleansing started. A genocide.</p><p>The circle around them gets tighter, and Geralt is about to bare his sword again, but a familiar voice pipes in just in time. </p><p>“Geralt! Your friend’s got such a sonorous voice!”</p><p>“He’s not my friend,” Geralt bristles. “Velerad.”</p><p>The burgomeister of Vizima got even balder since the last time Geralt had seen him. If it is even possible. But Velerad has never been an ordinary man. There are his bodyguards, all four of them are tall and sturdy, and the crowd loses its spirit all at once. </p><p>Meanwhile, Jaskier remains inspired.  </p><p>“I’m just a humble bard, and I’m just trying to enlighten your people with my art,” Jaskier scrunches up his nose. “Not sure if I’m succeeding though.”</p><p>“You’re saying wise words for dumb ears, young man,” Velerad cocks his head, notably interested. “Would you agree to continue our conversation in my house?”</p><p>“Of course,” Jaskier nods.</p><p>The kikimora’s head suddenly gets too heavy in the bag.</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>“We can consider this a contract, Geralt,” Velerad offers, tossing a bag of coin onto the table, next to kikimora’s head. “Needed to get rid of that creature anyway, and, also… You saved my Agnieszka. I will always be grateful.”</p><p>Velerad’s daughter got kidnapped by a gang of rogues ten years ago, and Geralt was apparently crazy enough to jump into that commotion on his own. He got an arrow in his side, but he saved a ten-year-old girl and brought her back to Velerad safely. After that, Velerad was kind enough to help Geralt settle down on the outskirts of Vizima when the Nilfgaardian inquisition arrived to Temeria. </p><p>“How is she?” Geralt asks, as polite se he can. </p><p>“Moved to Talgar with her second husband,” Velerad says. “Expecting her third child. Hope it’s gonna be a boy this time.”</p><p>Geralt isn’t sure whether he should congratulate him or not.</p><p>Jaskier breaks the silence,</p><p>“Tough life.” </p><p>“She would like you, bard,” Velerad points out. “I can give her your coordinates when she’s an unmarried woman again.”</p><p>Geralt chuckles into his fist as he sees Jaskier’s face. He’s definitely not ready to become a father of three. Well, maybe that’s gonna make him leave Geralt alone on his journey. </p><p>“We need hot water and clean clothes,” Geralt says. “And a room.”</p><p>Velerad claps his hands.</p><p>“Oh, say no more! My lads will show you the way to the best inn in Vizima!”</p><p>Geralt thanks him.</p><p>Like good old times.</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>Velerad keeps his promise; their room in the inn is rather cozy, with soft beds and ivory bedsheets. Their new clothes fit them just fine — all black for Geralt and dark-green for Jaskier, along with the white undershirt. After having all the blood and dirt cleaned off his face, he looks almost like a local noble; he sits on his bed, tuning the lute and singing something under his breath. </p><p>“I’m gonna buy a horse,” Geralt says. </p><p>“Oh, that’s a smart decision.” </p><p>Jaskier keeps fiddling with the tuning pegs. There are wide scrapes on his chin, and his jaw is bruised, but it’s a low price for his annoyance. Although Yennefer must have saved his life — the bards’ community has always been wild at their rivalry. </p><p>Geralt leaves the inn with a heavy heart. The bond between Jaskier and Yennefer is still a mystery, and Geralt wants to find out why she didn’t visit him herself.</p><p>He wanders the streets of Vizima brooding, he buys a brown horse with the white speck on her forehead and names her Roach. That leaves his bag empty, and the horse-coper gives him a wide toothless smile as he takes the coin. But even his feigned joyfulness can’t mask his distaste. </p><p>Witchers with money are rare guests there. </p><p>“I missed you,” Geralt whispers into Roach’s ear as he gets into the saddle; his knee is grateful. Roach huffs. Roach likes him. </p><p>He rides back to the inn when the sun sticks to the horizon, painting the sky orange and red; he hears the music and a cheerful singing as soon as he gets closer. Geralt leaves Roach in the stable for the night, determined to leave Vizima early in the morning — he deserved to get some sleep. The stableman, a middle-aged man with the square shoulders does not even greet him, just giving him a silent nod. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t insist.</p><p>The cause of the hubbub and the hum in the inn is, of course, Jaskier — Geralt just clicks his tongue at the sight of the bard sitting right on the table surrounded by the plates of food and jugs of ale and wine. People are dancing, singing along with Jaskier and laughing at <em> how horny the fishmonger’s daughter is. </em>They genuinely like his ballads, and Jaskier starts another one, the one that the man from the crowd asks for — something about ladies and tough life choices.</p><p>Geralt props the wall with his shoulder and listens. Jaskier’s voice is somehow… Engaging, considering that Geralt’s ears haven’t fallen off. They all get even drunker, and there’s a burly peasant woman with a thick black braid rubbing Jaskier’s inner thigh, almost teasing him. Jaskier squirms, Geralt coughs into his fist.</p><p>“Geralt!” Jaskier waves his arm at him. “The savior of humanity, I’m so glad you’re back!” </p><p>Jaskier’s audience cheers and claps again. </p><p>“Stop acting like a jester,” Geralt says through his clenched teeth.</p><p>Jaskier raises the mug and slurps down its contents in two huge gulps. </p><p>“Stay with us,” he pleads drunkenly before he takes another one. </p><p>His fingers run across the neck of the lute fluently, creating random melodies. He’s probably not even thinking of the words he’s singing, improvising and getting endless praises from his listeners. </p><p>Geralt hates this buffoonery.</p><p>Geralt stays.</p><p>Jaskier sings another ballad, about <em> The White Wolf </em> this time, and Geralt feels curious glances all aimed at him; Jaskier sings about how mighty and brave Geralt of Rivia is, and <em> toss a coin to your witcher, </em> and all the people in the inn yell the chorus along with him.</p><p>Simple minds don’t need a global reforging.</p><p>Most likely, they’re not gonna get attacked in their sleep tonight. </p><p>Geralt drinks and eats with the three men sitting next to him at the table, way too far from Jaskier. The woman that was flirting with him earlier is now trying to get into his pants unashamedly, slipping the coin right into his pockets and holding her hand there longer than necessary. Jaskier smiles at her charmingly, brushing her hands off his hips and drinking again, straight from the jug this time, ale runs down his chest. It’s been hours upon hours of restless singing, and Geralt has to admit that he’s good at working for public. And he’s good at drinking non-stop. He’s stronger than the peasants snoring on the floor already.</p><p>Geralt smirks into his beer when Jaskier staggers across the inn to the nearest bench and flops down onto it, exhausted; the same woman pops out of the blue and sits beside him. He’s sleeping by the time she ruffles his hair, her eyes and her chemise wide open — Jaskier drops his head onto her shoulder while she adjusts the collar of his new shirt lovingly. </p><p>Geralt finishes his drink and goes to ruin their intimacy. </p><p>“I think your gentleman is a bit tired,” he bares his teeth in a smile. “I’m gonna take him to his room, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>The woman doesn’t mind, covering her chest with her braid and nodding. </p><p>“Good.” </p><p>Geralt yanks Jaskier up by the front of his doublet. Jaskier mumbles in his sleep, speech slurred, and words drowned out in the loud snoring of the man sprawled out next to the bench. The coins keep jingling in Jaskier’s pockets as Geralt drags him upstairs; Jaskier’s head hangs low, one arm thrown around Geralt’s shoulder and another one holding his lute instinctively. Geralt pushes the door open and drops Jaskier onto the bed. Jaskier promptly buries himself into the furs, pressing his face to the pillow. His look is so ironically angelic, but now Geralt knows how dirty his tongue is — his songs were so lyrically vulgar, especially the one about Valdo Marx. Maybe Geralt understands that poor bard who wants Jaskier dead. Geralt can even guess who started the conflict in the first place. </p><p>Everything just doesn’t feel real: a nice bed, clean sheets, or a decent dinner, or a horse — he always calls his horses “Roach” not to mess their names up. This name makes them stronger as if it has some magic in it. </p><p>He doesn’t think Yennefer was going to stay in Posada after potralling Jaskier to Vizima. She’s always been good at being invisible. As one of his old sources of information, she might also know something about Vesemir’s location — they will not be able to stand against the Nilfgaardian forces without the most experienced witcher. The last time Geralt had heard from him he was in Oxenfurt with a few others who managed to survive. Geralt is going to head there in the morning. He just needs to sneak out of the inn earlier than Jaskier; it’s not gonna be a problem, Geralt moves quietly.  </p><p>Jaskier’s speech is still indistinct, but Geralt can hear some of the words now; he’s talking about kikimoras and flying drakes, about carnivorous pikes and werewolves. And about Geralt’s black eyes. And then he smiles, and Geralt doesn’t believe that at first — but Jaskier is certainly enjoying the dream he’s having. He turns to his side, clutching the corner of a pillow and breathing out a name again.</p><p>
  <em> Geralt. </em>
</p><p>This is definitely not a nightmare. And Geralt is sure that Jaskier is going to forget about it tomorrow, when he’ll be dying of a raging hangover. He doesn’t want to gloat, but he can’t help it, he can’t let some young idiot have dreams about him and about his eyes. Mostly because Jaskier is still not entirely sober. </p><p>“Don’t leave me,” Jaskier whines into the pillow. </p><p>Geralt is anything but gentle when he shakes him by the shoulder. Jaskier falls silent, swallowing back a groan; he doesn’t even open his eyes, just sinking deeper under the covers.</p><p>Maybe Geralt should’ve left him with that woman for element of surprise.</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>As expected, Jaskier wakes up hangover. </p><p>He’s sitting on his bed clutching his head when Geralt opens his eyes — Jaskier is an early bird, it seems. Geralt can’t hide his discontent.</p><p>“You’re awake.”</p><p>“Good morning, Geralt,” Jaskier hiccups and tiptoes to the bucket of water in the corner of the room. He gets on his knees and plunges his head into it like a thirsty dog. “What happened yesterday?” he gurgles. </p><p>Geralt stretches, all of his joints crack. It feels good. </p><p>“You got shitfaced.”</p><p>“And woke up alone,” Jaskier stares at his reflection in the water thoughtfully. “Am I getting old already?” </p><p>Geralt can’t hold back a short laughter.</p><p>“In <em> that </em> state, you wouldn’t have been able to satisfy your last night muse anyway.” </p><p>“Ah, that one,” Jaskier wipes his face with a cloth, looking somewhat better. “I prefer… Blondes.”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t tell him about his dream; he doesn’t talk to Jaskier at all, getting dressed and grabbing his bags. </p><p>“Where are we going now?” </p><p><em>“I’m</em> going,” Geralt walks out of the door. </p><p>Swaying and gripping the oak railings so hard it might leave splinters in his palms, Jaskier runs after him downstairs. </p><p>“I thought about heading to Oxenfurt,” he blurts out. </p><p>Geralt stops, Jaskier hits his back with his entire body. </p><p>“Oxenfurt?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Jaskier nods enthusiastically. “I love Oxenfurt with all my heart. Studied there in the Academy for four years. The seven liberal arts,” he adjusts the strap of the case on his shoulder. “Could have become a professor even.”</p><p>Geralt turns around to face him.</p><p>“You?”</p><p>“Me,” Jaskier shrugs. “So, are you going to be my traveling companion from now on?” </p><p>“Are you going to stay in Oxenfurt then?” Geralt asks with a glimpse of hope in his voice. </p><p>Jaskier blows his wet bangs off his forehead.</p><p>“Maybe.”</p><p>They step over the sleeping drunks on their way — the aftermath of Jaskier’s yesterday show. </p><p>“I can knock people down without the sword,” Jaskier kicks the door open. “They will never forget how amazing my ballads were. I did it for you, Geralt,” he sticks out his forefinger. “I’m not asking for like ten percent of your coin for making your reputation better within one night, but it’s just what best friends do for each other, isn’t it?” </p><p>Geralt takes Roach out of the stable. </p><p>The sound of the lute keeps chasing him all the way to Oxenfurt.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>loosely based on the show, the books, the games and the amazing devil albums~<br/>---<br/>title from Elsa’s song by the amazing devil</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“You’re still an arrogant child.” </p><p>“And you need to retire.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>Oxenfurt, Redania</em> </b>
</p><p>Oxenfurt hasn’t changed since Geralt’s last visit almost thirty years ago. As if it hasn’t been occupied by the Nilfgaardian Empire yet; as if Geralt hasn’t arrived there listening to the “best of Jaskier’s songs” as he called them. It was a bother of a ride with Jaskier plodding after Roach and entertaining — or scaring — the birds with his singing.</p><p>And then the rain started.</p><p>Jaskier lets out a cloud of a ragged breath, he rubs his shoulders until Geralt caves and helps him climb up on Roach although he doesn’t even ask for it. They might never see each other again, and Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier to slip and break a leg on his watch.</p><p>They find the inn, <em> “Three Little Bells”, </em> and Jaskier might be indeed the most famous bard in Redania — he’s got some proofs now. The old innkeeper doesn’t kick them out despite the fact that they barged into the canteen in the middle of the night, all tired, hungry and dirty, and with the amount of coin that is not enough to sleep even on a rag by the door. Their clothes are soaked to the last thread, water gathers in puddles under their feet.</p><p>“The food is served in your room, Jaskier,” the innkeeper says. “You and your friend can stay there for as long as you need.”</p><p>Jaskier’s teeth are still chattering, so he can’t even manage a simple “thank you”. Geralt does that for him, earning a confused look from the man behind the counter.  </p><p>They change their clothes, they eat and get treated like long-awaited guests. Of course, Geralt hasn’t expected Jaskier to get kicked around all the time; but the innkeeper and his workers look at Jaskier with <em> respect, </em>projecting some of it on Geralt as well. They don’t stare at him with their jaws hanging open, don’t whisper behind his back, as if they don’t notice he’s a witcher. This wouldn’t have been possible if he’d come there alone, for sure.    </p><p>“What a good night! The stars are so bright, and the sky is so clear now it gets my thoughts flowing in the romantic way. This requires a song, my dear friend,” Jaskier stifles down a yawn. “Wanna give it a review?”</p><p>“I’m going to go wash Roach.”</p><p>Jaskier agrees immediately.</p><p>“Our girl deserved that.”</p><p>Geralt takes the bucket of water and a brush and leaves the inn; the air is fresh after the rain, but the dust on the road has turned to viscous mud. Roach nuzzles his neck, he pats her head, praising her as he begins to wash away the layer of dirt on her croup and her thighs. She sighs, grateful, one of the smartest horses he’s ever had. </p><p>This is when his medallion begins to vibrate. </p><p>Geralt tenses up immediately; Roach hits the ground with her hoof.  </p><p>“Calm down,” Geralt fiddles with her mane. “No one’s gonna hurt you.”</p><p>He’s about to go back to <em> “Three Little Bells” </em>just to check if Jaskier is still alive — he’s not going to deal with his corpse now, when he’s planned his own happily ever after. Without Jaskier. Also he doubts he’s gonna find Vesemir here — he would’ve given him a sign already, but there’s nothing at all. </p><p>“Geralt! Geralt, thank God you’re here!”</p><p>Geralt clutches the medallion in his hand when Jaskier trips over a loose plank and waves his arms, almost comically, not to fall. He pants, cheeks flushed from running, and presses his palm to his chest. </p><p>“Geralt, I’ve just met the strangest woman in my entire life. We’re leaving,” he says peremptorily, making his way to Roach. “She tried to kill me!”</p><p>His shirt is laced loose and his pants are half undone, he’s scared and astonished at the same time. Geralt frowns.</p><p>“Where’s she? What did she look like?”</p><p><em> If she wanted to kill you, you’d be dead, </em>Geralt wants to add. But Jaskier looks like he’s about to pass out already.</p><p>Jaskier shrieks and hides behind his back.</p><p>“She came after me. Please, please, cast a spell and turn her to a… Rock, hay, anything!”</p><p>Geralt has to tell him that he’s not turning his enemies to <em> rocks, </em> but,   </p><p>But here’s the creature that comes into the stable — Geralt would’ve called it a woman if he was a human. But for him it’s just an ill-created illusion. She’s beautiful, with curly red hair that is long enough to cover her milky-white breasts, with small freckles like sun kisses on her chest and on her face. Her big green eyes gleam in the moonlight, and her smile is coy enough to make a lonely man go crazy. She’s only wearing a thin silky chemise that barely touches her thighs.</p><p>And she’s got massive hooves and horns with magical runes carved all over them.</p><p>“Hello, witcher,” she leans against the doorframe. “How comes that of all the men in the inn I picked up the wrong one? You should really teach him a lesson about how to treat a lady <em> like me.” </em></p><p>“The succubus,” Geralt shoves Jaskier further past himself. “I didn’t expect to meet one in Oxenfurt.” </p><p>“You travel, I travel,” she shrugs; the chemise slides off of her shoulder. “Would you like to explain that to your boy? He’s got a lot of energy he doesn’t want to share.”   </p><p>“He prefers blondes,” Gerant quips. </p><p>Jaskier curses behind Geralt’s back.  </p><p>The succubus purses her lips.</p><p>“Thought so,” she purrs, twisting a strand of Geralt’s hair around her finger. “You are a work of art. And what do<em> you </em> prefer?”</p><p>“To not talk to the goats!” Jaskier interjects before Geralt can answer.</p><p>The succubus fumes, jumping forward and trying to kick Jaskier, but he dodges; the succubus misses the aim and swats Geralt’s knee with her hoof instead. His injured knee. Fuck Jaskier. </p><p>Geralt clings to Roach’s neck not to keel over, barely holding back a howl.</p><p>“Sorry, witcher. And you… Fuck you!” the succubus voices Geralt’s thoughts, glaring daggers at Jaskier. “You weren’t even my main goal!”</p><p>Geralt waits for the pulsation in his busted joint to subside before asking,</p><p>“What do you want from us?” </p><p>“I’m Mara,” her lips almost touch Geralt’s ear as she introduces herself. “And I got a letter for Geralt of Rivia and his bard. And I’ll tell you everything I know if you answer one question.”</p><p>“What question?”</p><p>Mara smiles and crosses her arms over her chest. </p><p>“I want him,” she nods at Jaskier. “To explain why he’s resilient to my spell and my disguise. I’m not into humans at all, no need to spill my guts with your silver sword, witcher. No one died by my hand… Or any other part,” she winks at him in a flirty way. “I prefer elves, their gracious bodies with long, muscular limbs, soft lips and tender touches. But I still think your bard is rather handsome. We’d have had some great time if this little monster hadn’t ruined the mood.” </p><p>That’s what comes to Geralt’s mind, too — he’s never met a <em> human </em> who could see the true form of a succubus or a doppler. </p><p>“Jaskier?”</p><p>Jaskier’s face is a lot paler now. </p><p>“I’m not a monster, I swear, Geralt, don’t listen to her! Don’t kill me!” he tries to hide in the gap between Roach and the wall. “I don’t know why I see your soul, Mara, my apologies, but maybe I’m spending too much time with Geralt and adopting some of his skills? Or something? Am I just special?”</p><p>“A special idiot,” Geralt says.</p><p>“This is why I’m not sleeping with the witchers,” Mara clanks her hooves against the stones. “All of their friends are weird.”</p><p>“Says the succubus,” Jaskier mumbles. “What about the letter for us?”</p><p>“Right,” Mara shoves her hand underneath her chemise. Geralt would’ve never thought that there might be a pocket. “Here,” she hands him a letter with a red wax seal. “Yennefer gave it to me during her last visit.” </p><p>“Yennefer?!”</p><p>“Yes, witcher, Yennefer of Vengerberg, she was looking for… What was his name… Vesemir? She couldn’t find him, but she knew you would eventually come here.”</p><p>Mara shifts from one foot to another. </p><p>“Am I free to go now?”</p><p>“Yes. Thank you for the news,” Geralt folds and unfolds the letter, eager to read it already.</p><p>Mara winks at him.</p><p>“Goodbye, witcher. Good luck with your… Hunt,” she then blows Jaskier a kiss. “Goodbye, my little buttercup. Find me when you’re ready to have the most wonderful night of love in your life.” </p><p>And then she walks out of the stable. </p><p>Jaskier sits in the corner, reading Yennefer’s letter out loud while Geralt continues to wash Roach. He needs a better distraction.</p><p>“So she wants us to sail to the island Ard Skellig where she and the sorceress named Triss live,” Jaskier says. “This is it, this is the letter. She’s sending <em> the ship for us, </em> Geralt, who’s this woman?!”</p><p>“She could be a goddess,” Geralt says. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”</p><p>Jaskier regains some of his usual excitement.</p><p>“And I’m going with you?”</p><p>“Sadly,” Geralt shakes the water off his hands. “Yennefer and Triss have never been… Friends. I must’ve missed something that made them unite.”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t mention that now Yennefer is probably the one who can solve Jaskier’s mystery. </p><p>Jaskier drops the letter between his knees. </p><p>“So we’re gonna meet two more sorceresses on our way. That’s so… Reassuring.”</p><p>The letter said they’re expected to arrive at the port at dawn where the drakkar will be waiting for them. This night is gonna be a sleepless one. Geralt is going to leave Roach here in the stable until he gets back from Ard Skellig, and Jaskier promises him that the innkeeper will take care of her. The horse understands that they’re not seeing each other anytime soon, pushing Geralt’s shoulder with her snout, looking at him with her sad almond eyes.</p><p>“Behave, Roach,” he gently strokes her between her ears. </p><p>Jaskier lets out a quiet <em> aw, that’s so sweet. </em> Horses make Geralt all sentimental.  </p><p>But the Continent is about to be destroyed completely. </p><p>And Jaskier might be a part of his team now. </p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Drakkar “Drac”, The Great Sea</em> </b> </p><p>Geralt’s mood is just terrible, and the only person on the drakkar whose mood is even worse is Jaskier. He’s been throwing his guts up since the third hour of their journey, and there’s no sign of stopping it. Seasickness is unpredictable, but honestly, Geralt didn’t expect it to hit Jaskier that hard. He can barely stand even when he’s holding onto something, and even the slightest swaying of the drakkar makes him groan and spit out bile into the sea. </p><p>“It’s gonna pass,” Geralt pats his hunched back clumsily. “Eventually.”</p><p>Jaskier tries his best not to look down, at the navy blue waves, sniffling and clinging to the wooden oar.</p><p>“Yeah, of course,” Jaskier blinks, shuddering as the drakkar lurches again and pressing his face to the crook of his elbow. “This is how the vikings tortured their victims, I’m sure.”</p><p>The deck smells of clean wood and tar; the oarsmen are playing gwent while the sea is calm. Geralt would like to join them as well, but Jaskier keeps bending over the side of the ship, too close to falling over; Geralt is sure no one’s going to jump into the sea and save him if he gets swallowed by the hungry mouth of water. He doesn’t feel any better as the hours pass; the Captain, a man with a matted reddish beard that serpentines down his torso, begins to drop witty comments are he passes by.</p><p>“Let your boy stay with us, witcher,” he guffaws. “We’re gonna turn him to a real man. We’ll teach him how to mop the deck, and he can also entertain my great team. That instrument is not cheap, is it?” he tugs at the knot in his beard. “A man can’t be sick of the sea, right? A year of sailing or more — and his disease is cured!”   </p><p>Apparently, Jaskier imagines these wonderful perspectives: he turns even paler, staggering backwards so Geralt has to catch him under the armpits. He just nods instead of thanking Geralt and covers his mouth with his palm.</p><p>The Captain throws his head back and laughs. </p><p>“One more word, and you’ll swim next to your rotten bucket,” Geralt barks out. “Leave him alone. He’s just a bard. He’s never sailed before.”</p><p>Jaskier turns his head to Geralt and gives him a weak smile. And then vomits again.</p><p>The Captain smirks somewhat good-naturedly.</p><p>“The storm is coming,” he says. “You better tuck him into the hull before he drowns. And don’t let him spew his innards on the deck or I’ll make you clean it all by yourself!” </p><p>The sea is as smooth as a freshly washed silky sheet. The Captain whips around and roars the orders to the oarsmen and the others, while Geralt tries to detect the signs of the storm. Geralt props his elbow on the shield with the emblem of Skellige on it; the sun is bright red, rays turn the waves to crystals. Drakkars are the fastest longships on the Continent, the best ones for wars and minor fights. The keel is decorated with the wooden dragon’s head, mouth open and full of teeth; Geralt understands why Yennefer chose this one — to terrify the pirates and other goons, so no one would expect the witcher <em> sailing. </em> </p><p>He doesn’t know for how long he keeps standing there next to Jaskier; he coughs wetly, but nothing comes up.</p><p>“I’ve only been on the ship once, when my father had to meet… Some friends in Cintra ten years ago. I think he still regrets he didn’t drown me back then,” Jaskier’s voice wavers, barely audible, lips lost their color. “I was thirteen, almost fourteen. And he thought that I was just an arrogant child who just wanted to rebel to piss him off. Oh gods,” he presses his forehead to the shield.</p><p>Geralt points out,</p><p>“You’re still an arrogant child.” </p><p>“And you need to retire.”</p><p>Jaskier keeps staring at the horizon as the oarsmen get back to their job and maneuver the ship towards Ard Skellig; the waves grow bigger, licking the drakkar’s sides. The water turns darker along with the sky; the ship takes a swift turn, and Jaskier grabs at Geralt’s arm not to lose his footing. </p><p>“What’s going on? Is this...”</p><p>The end of his question drowns in the gust of wind, he doubles over and heaves as Geralt keeps holding him by his shoulders. Fat drops of rain are icy cold, the lightning pierces the sky like a golden arrow, its long tail gets stuck like a thread in the clouds. The Captain keeps giving orders, roaring and screaming, and the oarsmen put all of their forces not to let the ship keel over. A few of them fall of off their seats, and there’s the racking shiver going through Geralt’s medallion.</p><p>What a bad luck. </p><p>“Get him in the hull! Now!” the Captain shouts.</p><p>Geralt drags Jaskier across the slippery deck with the water pooling under their feet. The mast creaks and groans as the wind almost rips the striped sail off of it. The dragon’s head tears the flows of air that is getting thicker, and the bottom of the sea is calling for them. There’s something lurking there. Somebody throws a waterproof cover at him, and Geralt wraps Jaskier in it before helping him sit down; he huddles to the wooden balk with a small tent on it and curls into himself. </p><p>“Don’t get up,” Geralt howls through the wind that eats his words. “Even if you’re gonna vomit, don’t move!” </p><p>Jaskier responds with a nod, eyes sunken and skin sickly gray. Or maybe it’s just a sudden night that distorts all the colors. </p><p>Something hits the side of the drakkar, sending it into a tilt and making it to take a turn around itself. The medallion is going crazy on Geralt’s chest, his hair keeps swatting him across his face as he reaches for his scabbard and tugs at the pommel of a silver sword. </p><p>The storm and the monster is a killing combo.</p><p>Geralt runs to the board right in time when a huge wave spills out of the sea, splashing onto his face, filling his nose and his throat. When he wipes the salty water off his eyes, there’s the head covered with the spikes and a slick scaly neck.</p><p>“It’s a sea serpent,” Geralt chokes up. </p><p>The Captain and the sailors freeze for a brief moment that nearly costs them their lives. </p><p>The serpent tries to wrap itself around the ship; the wood gnashes, and the sky keeps weeping. Geralt swings the sword in his hand, waiting for the serpent’s head to reappear before aiming for its black eye — it takes one hit to half blinden it, the eyeball pops out of the socket and gets consumed by the sea. </p><p>He hears Jaskier’s voice, of maybe it’s just wind. </p><p>“Don’t go astray!” Geralt commands. “I’ll distract it!” </p><p>The Captain obeys.</p><p>“Get back to work, boys!”</p><p>The deck is all unsteady, tossing Geralt back and forth; the serpent is playing hide and seek in waves, spitting foam in Geralt’s face.</p><p>“Come here!” he screams, holding a bottle of potion in his hand. </p><p>And the serpent attacks him. Geralt makes a mad dash towards the monster and sticks his sword into its muscular body. It wiggles and hisses in pain, its tongue falls out of its mouth, red and bloodied; Geralt swallows the potion and jumps at the serpent. It’s a predictable move, but this is his only tactic from now on, since he’s got a ship full of people behind his back. </p><p>His sword is stuck in the serpent’s head as it hauls him into the water; it thrashes, convulsions twist its body. Geralt smacks his head against the keel, haze obstructs his vision, but the potion in his system doesn’t let him black out. He keeps holding against the spikes sprinkling the serpent’s back as they sink, his armor drags him down. Waves flood Geralt’s lungs, and he holds his breath, aiming for the creature’s remaining eye and gouging it out. Blood paints the water, Geralt’s chest is about to explode, and the serpent goes insane as it reaches the surface. Geralt sucks in a breath before his head dives underwater again. He sees the side of the ship not so far away from him, it’s faster than the injured serpent now. And Geralt smells its fear, a horrid stench hits his receptors. And this is when his sword hits its artery — the blood sprays his face, and the serpent calms down for eternity. He racks the water, swimming away from the creature that’s going limp and sinks, staring at him, all eyeless and mangled. </p><p>With his senses sharpened, Geralt speeds up to reach to the board of the drakkar; the Captain and the sailors applaud. </p><p>The storm subsides.    </p><p>The captain tosses a rope, and Geralt wraps it around his wrist, propping his legs against the wooden planks to help them pull him out of the sea. As soon as his feet touch the deck, he’s welcomed with the choir of whooping. </p><p>“He’s alive!”</p><p>“Can’t believe The Butcher of Blaviken just saved our lives!”</p><p>“He did that! He killed that kurwa!”</p><p>“Who said the witchers were monsters?”</p><p>“He’s never been a monster,” a weak voice chimes in. “He’s The White Wolf.”</p><p>Geralt turns to the sound, surprised; an exhausted Jaskier leans against one of the sailors. He’s still wrapped in a waterproof sheet although he’s wet from his head down to his toes.</p><p>“Get some rest, lads,” the Captain says. </p><p>The sailor who’s been supporting Jaskier throws Jaskier’s arm off his shoulder. He sways so Geralt has to react quickly not to let him fall down. They sit down on a rickety bench near the hull; Geralt wipes the blood off his face. </p><p>“It might take a day before we moor at the island,” he says. </p><p>Jaskier coughs. </p><p>“I’m gonna kiss the ground when it happens.” </p><p>The sun is setting; Jaskier keeps shivering under the cover, but it doesn’t warm him up, for sure. They sit there until the stars pops up on the sky. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t feel a thing. </p><p>Jaskier is as pale as the moonlight. He lurches forward and breathes heavily as the drakkar takes another swing; Geralt pats his back again, his shirt is all drenched, sticking to his body. </p><p>“You’ll adjust.”</p><p>Jaskier nods and vomits on the deck.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/f6/37/06/f637060979c29860117b1f99c4ed48ef.jpg">longship</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Can we stop joking about death?”</p><p>“We’re not joking.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b> <em>Island Ard Skellig, Skellige</em> </b> </p><p>Jaskier is indeed about to kiss the shore when the ship moors at the large gap between the rocks. From what Geralt can see, he felt a bit better in the morning — at least, he finally stopped throwing up, so Geralt thought that was a good sign. Or maybe it was just his empty stomach. </p><p>“I’ve never been happier than I am now, when the ground is all steady under my feet,” Jaskier falls to his knees, barely catching his lute not to get it smashed against the wet stones. “Geralt,” he raises his head up. “Please don’t make me go through this torment ever again.” </p><p>Geralt purses his lips. </p><p>“No promises.” </p><p>The drakkar pushes off, away from the shore, away from the island, leaving Geralt and Jaskier alone there. As if it’s just a deserted area. And there’s no sign of Yennefer yet, just a tiny presence of magic in a salty air.</p><p>“What?” Jaskier finally gets up to his feet. “Are we going to find your… Friends? How are we gonna do that?”</p><p>Geralt hums. </p><p>Their clothes are still damp, Jaskier rubs his shoulders at the embrace of chilly wind. They walk down the stone-paved path, surrounded with the lush bushes sprinkled with tiny red flowers. The grass is as soft as a carpet, and thick lianas snake up the gray hills. </p><p>“Does she really <em> want </em> us to find her?” Jaskier shakes the leaves off his battered doublet. “I mean… This is weird, but do you even know Yennefer?”</p><p>“No one knows Yennefer.”</p><p>“Really?” </p><p>Geralt frowns at the voice behind him, Jaskier clutches at his heart and yelps. </p><p>“Do you wanna say you don’t know me, Geralt?” Yennefer smiles as Geralt turns to her. Her steps have always been feather-light. A nice skill for a sorceress. Or for an assassin. “Your friend looks a bit… Green.”</p><p>“Had a tough night sailing.” </p><p>Jaskier sways, but he doesn’t comment on his state. </p><p>“And what about you?” Yennefer looks right into Geralt’s eyes. “You reek of guts and horse. I’m not surprised though,” she gently touches the side of his face. “I’ll show you the way to my castle.”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t feel the stench of the serpent’s innards anymore, but Yennefer has never hesitated to prove him wrong. They walk up the hill together, scraping their hands against the stones and letting the lianas cling to their clothes. The stones form a shaky mosaic under Geralt’s feet, making him slide down and curse while Yennefer’s black dress is looming far ahead of him. The wind plays in her black hair, almost braiding the locks. She keeps hurrying them up, and Geralt outstretches his arm for Jaskier to grasp against it; he has been plodding after them asking the questions all the time, not getting the answers. He grips at Geralt’s wrist gratefully, huffing out a shuddering breath. </p><p>“Am I talking to myself?”</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt says. </p><p>With his help, Jaskier can finally catch Yennefer up, standing on top of a massive rock. She looks at him, pity mixed with sympathy in her violet eyes. Geralt jerks his shoulder when Jaskier leans against him, his lute thuds against his back. </p><p>“Wait until you meet Triss,” Yennefer lifts the hem of her dress slightly to jump over a thin stream. “You two are going to like each other. She’s talking too much just like you.”</p><p>“This might be a problem,” Geralt wipes the sweat off his forehead. “They’re gonna talk each other to death.”</p><p>Jaskier pants, propping his fists against his knees.</p><p>“Can we stop joking about death?”</p><p>“We’re not joking.”</p><p>Yennefer is all seriousness.</p><p>They keep walking. </p><p>Miles and hours away from the shore, they keep climbing up the hills until there’s the castle — a giant one, as black as a soulless mountain. It doesn’t look like the sorceress’ shelter at all. There is a massive lock with the lion’s head carved in it; Yennefer takes the key out of her leather bag, lets them in, promptly slamming shut a heavy door with a grid on it. This place reminds Geralt of the striga’s sarcophagus, boarded up windows can’t provide enough light for such a big hall. There are long shadows crossing the walls, clouds of dust forming the whirlwinds in the air. There is a long and dark hallway in front of them, with no signs of life in it. Yennefer is not bothered by this chaos at all, the dust doesn’t even settle down on her hair or on her neat clothing. </p><p>“Nilfgaard is about to chop your head off,” she tells Geralt. “And mine. And his,” she points at Jaskier. </p><p>“But I haven’t done anything!”</p><p>“You have some information they may or may not need.” </p><p>“And this is why you were heartless enough to toss me to the forest!” Jaskier groans. “It was just a fantastic experience, what else can I say?”</p><p>“You know almost everyone on the Continent,” Yennefer continues. “Not a single rumor or gossip swims past your ears, bard.”</p><p>Jaskier straightens up his back.</p><p>“Is that a crime?”</p><p>“Of course not.”</p><p>Geralt tugs at Jaskier’s sleeve to make him shut up as Triss enters the room; she hasn’t changed since their last meeting — curly hair, warm smile, she’s emitting the aura of kindness and comfort to neutralize Yennefer’s stormy attitude. Triss greets them, holding a candle, and then Yennefer utters,</p><p>“The war is coming.”</p><p>Geralt adds,</p><p>“What a surprise.” </p><p>“I couldn’t find Vesemir,” Yennefer glares at him. “And we’re not gonna last long without his support.”</p><p>Geralt knew she was bound to say that; if the Nilfgaardian Empire is coming for the witchers’ heads, they could’ve started with Vesemir. If they’re sticking to pessimistic thoughts, of course.</p><p>“Mages from Aretuza can fight too.”</p><p>“Mages from Aretuza can die too,” Yennefer snaps.</p><p>This is the end of discussion. </p><p>And this castle still looks like a tomb.</p><p>“Are you living there alone?” Jaskier asks as they wander the halls, crossed here and there like a labyrinth. “I don’t want to go to relieve my bladder in the middle of the night and meet a dragon. Or a siren. Well, if we’re talking about sexy sirens, maybe I don’t mind then...”</p><p>“The sirens live in the seas,” Geralt cuts him off.</p><p>“Almost everyone is dead,” Yennefer says at the same time. “The mages. Are you satisfied?”</p><p>Triss pats her shoulder slightly.</p><p>“Calm down, Yenn, they don’t know about the massacre.”</p><p>“Satisfied with what?” Jaskier’s tone changes from cheerful to angry. “Do you think we like any of it? Do you think that humanity enjoys the war? The massacre nobody tells us about? Pour some light on this mystery then!”</p><p>Geralt listens to this tirade. </p><p>“Hate to admit, but he’s right, Yenn.”</p><p>“Sure. I thought so,” Yennefer smirks. “He’s your best friend now.” </p><p>Jaskier looks into her eyes boldly.</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>There is a surge of magic in the air, as Yennefer raises her hand, but Triss locks her fingers around her wrist. Yennefer reluctantly wipes her palm on her thigh.</p><p>“I’ll show you your rooms,” Triss claps her hands. Magic disappears. “You must be tired.” </p><p>Jaskier nods,</p><p>“Deadly.” </p><p>His “do not mention death” rule is not working, it seems. He follows Triss while Yennefer makes Geralt stop by the corner and whispers into his ear,</p><p>“I didn’t want to hurt your bard. Just wanted to… Change his voice a little. For fun,” she smiles crookedly. “He’s never quiet, isn’t it annoying?”</p><p>And Geralt says,</p><p>“You should’ve thought of that <em> before </em> sending him my way.”</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>They have separate rooms and clean beds with silky baldachins and thick oak planks with leaves and trees carved in them. The windows are narrow and long, and the ceilings are lost in darkness like the night starless skies. As if something might attack them from above; there’s just one candle on the table in Geralt’s room, the fire wavers and dances frantically. And there’s a wooden bathtub in the corner, the water is still hot so Geralt undresses and gets into it, letting his tired muscles relax. He’s got a few minutes to clean himself after his sea adventures before regrouping with Yennefer and Triss to have a tough conversation about the Continent’s fate. Although he prefers doing things, not discussing them.</p><p>But now it’s only him and the a splashing of water. </p><p>Silence, finally. </p><p>Geralt rests his head onto the edge of the bathtub, closing his eyes and meditating to get rid of the potion in his veins that is still poisoning his blood. </p><p>And then the door to his room cracks open. </p><p>“Geralt?” </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt wipes his face with his palm. “What again?” he’s irritated, but Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to walk in. </p><p>He’s only wearing a loosely-laced shirt with rolled up sleeves, and his pants are sprinkled with water as if he was going to take a bath, but changed his minds. </p><p>“I’ve got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>They don’t have time for this. For anything, in fact. </p><p>“I thought that somebody was going to explain what’s going on, but… I feel like I’m just a bait,” Jaskier comes closer, sitting down onto the edge of the bath. “As if Yennefer wants to use me for her own purposes like a pawn so the Queen wouldn’t die.” </p><p>“Yennefer’s not like that.” </p><p>The flame flickers as Jaskier laughs.</p><p>“You can keep trusting her, of course,” he presses his lips into a thin line as his mood changes. </p><p>Jaskier’s concern is understandable; he’s not familiar with the witchers and sorceresses’ routine so he’s got every right to be terrified. He tries to turn everything to a joke, and Geralt suddenly realizes that he’s the only person here who Jaskier calls a friend. And Jaskier is being honest with him, as transparent as a glass, although Geralt still needs to look <em> through </em> him to know the truth. He impressed the succubus by his resistance, and Geralt wants to know more about his potential. But Geralt doesn’t need friends among humans. Humans tend to die bleeding and agonizing over their wounds. It’s not easy to befriend a mage either. He thinks about Yennefer, who turned him down years ago just because they were “too different”. He didn’t insist. He used to be a loner, and Jaskier needs a company so desperately he’s ready to go to the war and die just to get noticed. </p><p>“I overheard her conversation with Triss,” Jaskier says, leaning closer to Geralt. “Yennefer thought I could be a spy. Since I “know almost everyone on the Continent” and that I’d look “way too innocent” for the Nilfgaardian army. But I don’t wanna die like that, I mean, disgraced,” he suddenly shudders. “I’m a poet, Geralt, a fucking bard that used to hold an instrument instead of a sword. So if this is her plan, then I’m quitting.” </p><p>He gets up, not waiting for an answer. </p><p>Geralt stops him by catching his sleeve. </p><p>“Jaskier, wait.”</p><p>Jaskier turns to him. </p><p>“Yeah, oh mighty witcher?”</p><p>“If this is Yennefer’s plan, then you’re free to go to a safe place,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s eyes look navy blue in a meager lightning. “I promise.”</p><p>Jaskier smiles with the corner of his mouth. </p><p>“I believe you.” </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>There’s the basement in Yennefer’s castle, filled with jugs full of different kinds of wine, ale and beer.</p><p>“If the alcoholism could only end the war, I’d be the best fighter, I swear,” Jaskier says, hugging the jug and sniffing the aroma. </p><p>Yennefer raises her eyebrow.</p><p>“Finally stopped thinking that I’m gonna poison you?”</p><p>“It’s even better this way, my dear.” </p><p>“I’m not gonna deal with the drunk kid,” Yennefer huffs. “It’s all on you, Geralt.”</p><p>“He’s got high alcohol tolerance.”</p><p>“Are we here just to drink and explore all the beautiful views, or?..” Jaskier swallows a mouthful of wine. </p><p>They’re sitting in the dining room, next to the fireplace although Jaskier is the only one of them who keeps saying that he’s cold. So it’s all served for him since Yennefer made a mistake to come up with her excellent “spy Jaskier” plan and had a fight with both Jaskier and Triss. Yennefer’s arguments “he’s just a bard, no one even likes his songs” didn’t work either. </p><p>“I’m not gonna apologize for my tactic,” Yennefer says. “We’re in the same boat now. And we’re sinking.” </p><p>“Because your ego is too heavy,” Jaskier mumbles. </p><p>The fire almost licks his leg as Yennefer snaps her fingers. </p><p>“One more trick and I’ll take that with a stone-like facial expression.”  </p><p>“Yenn,” Triss hands her a glass. “It won’t bring back the others.” </p><p>Yennefer chugs the wine down.</p><p>Geralt does the same. </p><p>“So what’s the plan?”</p><p>“Find Vesemir.”</p><p>“He might be dead,” Triss says. </p><p>“Then we’re gonna find his body and burn it the fuck down not to let the Nilfgaardian army find it.” </p><p>“Yenn—”</p><p>“You know what they’ve done to <em> my sisters </em> in Aretuza,” Yennefer spits. “With them, and with their bodies afterwards. And now we’re stuck there while people are dying in the monsters’ mouths.”</p><p>Triss rubs her forehead tiredly.</p><p>“So you’re offering to attack them first?”</p><p>“Yes. Geralt?”</p><p>“I used to work alone,” Geralt says. “I can’t risk your lives.”</p><p>“Thank you for reminding me of this after the years of hiding.” </p><p>“It’s not my fault that people prefer your pretty face to my scars,” Geralt fends off rather sharply. Jaskier lets out an approving whistle. Although Geralt would’ve preferred to kill a couple of the Nilfgaardian soldiers not to sit in this lavish hall with the moth-eaten curtains and stale air.</p><p>Yennefer hates losing the games, the wars; she hates it when she’s not right. She never liked Aretuza, but Geralt thinks that it’s the loss of other sorceresses has made her this nervous and upset. Or it’s the fact that she now realizes that welcoming Jaskier to their team was her fault. </p><p>It’s gonna be a long evening.</p><p>Jaskier smirks,</p><p>“Maybe Vesemir doesn’t want to risk your lives as well?”</p><p>“He’s got a point there,” Geralt nods at him. </p><p>Yennefer is noncommittal.</p><p>If the remaining witchers are still located in Kaer Morhen, then they have more chances to resist the Nilfgaardian attack. Geralt thinks back of all the friends and lovers he’s lost — another fight is coming, and Jaskier isn’t going to make it through. Geralt’s intuition keeps yelling at him that <em> he doesn’t need Jaskier, </em> that they should send him somewhere where no one will find him until it’s over. If it’s ever gonna be over. There’s no safety in the Northern Kingdoms anymore, and the fact that Jaskier is a somewhat famous minstrel makes everything even worse. Geralt washes his thoughts down with ale. A half of the jug disappears in a second. </p><p>There’s the stench of an upcoming tragedy in the air. </p><p>And then Yennefer snaps her fingers again and says, </p><p>“Hey, Jaskier. Play something.”</p><p>He nearly tips the table over as he jumps up to his feet. He’s so passionate about it that Geralt chuckles when he’s sure Jaskier can’t see him. </p><p>“If the lady’s asking.”</p><p>Jaskier’s lute has been lying under the table the whole time. And that’s when Geralt realizes that he doesn’t remember a single song Jaskier’s been playing in the inns. Now he listens to it since the ale doesn’t affect his mind anymore — maybe he’s just too concerned. But Jaskier is so good at mixing his vulgar songs with lyrical ones, keeping his performance balanced. </p><p>Maybe it’s easier to die with the song spilling from your heart. </p><p>Maybe it just scares the death away.</p><p> </p><p>***     </p><p>Geralt wakes up when there’s a hand thrown over his torso; he’s lying on his side, and he clearly remembers going to bed alone. His mind is still fuzzy from sleep, but his reflexes take over; he makes one swift motion with his arm, pushing that “somebody” away from him and hearing a muffled thud against the wooden floor. </p><p>“Ow! Geralt!”  </p><p>Geralt sits up with his legs tangled in the sheets as he looks down at —</p><p>“Jaskier?”</p><p>Jaskier looks back at him.</p><p>“I think I broke my rib,” he squeals, pressing his palm to his side. </p><p>Both of them are fully clothed, otherwise… Geralt doesn’t want to even think about it, because Jaskier is still just a human, he’s going to get old and die eventually. Not until somebody kills him for his stupidity. </p><p>“You’re fine,” Geralt grumbles. Still doubled over, Jaskier climbs back up on the bed. </p><p>“I couldn’t sleep.”</p><p>“How did you—”</p><p>Jaskier grins. </p><p>“I’m sneaky. And heartbroken. And hungry.”</p><p>Geralt stares at him as if he sees him for the first time; Geralt’s hearing is sharpened to the point he can hear the grass growing if he tries hard enough; and now he couldn’t even hear Jaskier entering his room and getting onto his bed? </p><p>“What are you?” Geralt grabs the front of Jaskier’s shirt. “Resilient to the succubus, moving way too silently,” he pulls Jaskier closer to look into his eyes, “What. Are. You?”</p><p>His medallion leaves him without an answer. </p><p>“Geralt, what are you talking about? It’s not my fault that you were out cold when I asked if I could stay here with you, and you only said “hm-m” so I assumed you didn’t mind? I couldn’t fall asleep alone, I’ve slept with the most famous nobles all across the Continent, I’m not used to loneliness!” Jaskier’s words are slurred, and he chokes and clutches his side again. “That hurts.”</p><p>Geralt removes his hands off his collar, palpating his ribs instead. </p><p>“Not broken.”</p><p>“Great,” Jaskier breathes out through his clenched teeth. “Just great.” </p><p>The bedroom looks friendlier in the morning; there’s still a lot of dust and spider webs in the corners, but these beige sheets look so comfortably wrinkled that Geralt wants to stay there for a while. He’s had the first quiet night in forever, when he could finally tackle down his insomnia. And when he didn’t have to picture Jaskier’s death somewhere in the woods or in the swamp. Jaskier staggers to the door; he’s barefoot, with his back hunched and with his hair ruffled. He leaves, closing the door gently. He’s sneaky, but Geralt doesn’t believe that bullshit about sleeping with nobles — Jaskier looks like a man who’s learned about sex from pictures without the real practice. </p><p>Or maybe he’s wrong. </p><p>Why the hell is he thinking about Jaskier anyway? </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>They brood over the map of the Continent, trying to plan their actions. Yennefer says that there are the mages in the Temple of Melitele; Triss says that it’s not safe to go there alone when Nilfgaard is about to stab them in the back. </p><p>Yennefer doesn’t like it. </p><p>“We can’t keep hiding here!”</p><p>“We will not save anyone if we’re dead,” Triss says. “We don’t have an army!”</p><p>Geralt asks,</p><p>“Not gonna go to Kaer Morhen then?”</p><p>“To dig the bones of the witchers?” Yennefer spits venomously. “Just like I did with the mages from Aretuza?”</p><p>“It doesn’t have to be like that, Yenn.”</p><p>“We shouldn’t be dying just because we’re not humans.”</p><p>“We’re just losing one big political game,” Jaskier interjects. “All of us, if we don’t want to be a part of the Nilfgaardian swamp.”</p><p>Yennefer gives him a death glare. </p><p>“Would you vote for going to Kaer Morhen?”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs.</p><p>“Probably.” </p><p>“Okay, you’re not voting then.”</p><p>“Don’t give me that tone if you don’t want to get your reputation ruined in my songs,” Jaskier strums the lute to prove his words. “What did you say about being in the same boat? You’re making the holes in its bottom. Metaphorically.”</p><p>“I suggest to shut up before I make holes in <em> your </em> bottom, Jaskier.”</p><p>“Can you portal us straight to Kaer Morhen?” he asks. </p><p>Yennefer eventually softens, stopping her skirmish with Jaskier.</p><p>“I’m afraid no. But the drakkar’s mooring there at night. We’re gonna sail to Cintra and then I’ll try to portal you and Geralt to Kaer Morhen while Triss and I will be trying to find more mages all over the Continent.”</p><p>This is a terrible plan in Geralt’s opinion — he’s gonna have to look after Jaskier again, and the witchers will not be happy to welcome a curious human to their kingdom. But he can’t offer anything better, every lost second is a step to death. As if there’s only one option left, but there is the only thing that is clear: they should gather all of their magic forces into one powerful burst of energy to win the battle with Nilfgaard. Jaskier nearly drops his lute as he hears about the drakkar; Geralt can ask Triss to make a potion for his seasickness though — she’s a great healer, one of the best ones he’s ever met. Triss helped him with his injuries more than once or twice or ten times, when even Yennefer couldn’t do anything; Triss used to carry a lot of bottles with elixirs in her bag to help the mages and humans on her way. So maybe she’ll be able to cure Jaskier’s little disease.</p><p>Kaer Morhen has never been Geralt’s home, it was just a place where he had to walk the way of pain and suffering, years upon years of mutations and trials. Although Vesemir was a good mentor, he’s always been tough and somewhat cruel towards Geralt and the others. But Geralt hopes he’s still alive, and maybe he has a plan. </p><p>Yennefer leaves the room first, Triss follows her soon after while Geralt goes to the window and looks at the twilight sky. He hears the sounds of the lute, vaguely, stuck too deep in his thoughts. </p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier calls. “Do you think this is the end?”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t turn to him. </p><p>“There’s no end.” </p><p>“But what if we win?”</p><p>“Then you’d write another ballad and go fuck around with the nobles.”</p><p>He expects Jaskier to get offended, but he says before he leaves,</p><p>“You’re right.”</p><p>Maybe Yennefer just wanted to talk to them privately, to let them rest in the castle while the earth is burning.</p><p>The star falls. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t believe in his wishes.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>He keeps staring at the black sea when he feels the breathing on his neck. His first instinct is to punch the target, but there’s the smell of wine and bread. So Geralt turns around just to see <em> a very excited </em> Jaskier. He presses his forefinger to his lips and gestures at Geralt to follow him as he tiptoes out of the room. Geralt shrugs and enters the hallway with the candelabras decorating the walls. Jaskier keeps turning to him and smiling as he leads Geralt to the room in the end of a hallway, the door is closed, but there’s a small crack in the doorframe; Jaskier points at it, then bends over to look into the hole. And then he offers Geralt to do the same.</p><p>Geralt can’t fight his curiosity. </p><p>All he sees is a dimly lit room, and he hears vague sounds of kissing and soft moans — he can’t see a full picture, but there are the silhouettes of two women with their bodies tangled together on the bed. </p><p>“They’re… <em> Very </em> close friends,” Jaskier concludes, his grin is so wide Geralt feels uncomfortable. So he simply pushes Jaskier away from the door. “It’s so sexy, the way they kept fighting in front of us, and then… This. Did you know?” </p><p>The charade in Geralt’s head completes itself. </p><p>“No, I didn’t.”</p><p>“Are we going to tell them that we know?”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt is like a mountain on Jaskier’s way when he tries to get to the door one more time. “Let’s get out of here before Yenn curses you with a diarrhea or something worse.”</p><p>Jaskier pouts. </p><p>“Maybe it’s worth it.”</p><p>Geralt can hear the blood flowing in Jaskier’s veins, a boiling youth and an irrepressible desire. He keeps chuckling, covering his mouth with his palm; maybe he would be a good spy, indeed. Although Yennefer wouldn’t be pleased with that.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t want to let Jaskier barge into his room, but Jaskier never listens — he just enters it and falls onto the bed, kicking his shoes off and laughing happily. There’s his lute in the corner of <em> Geralt’s </em> room along with his bag. </p><p>“Move,” Geralt tries to roll him over so he wouldn’t be lying across the bed. “You’re drunk.”</p><p>“Not really.” </p><p>“Really,” Geralt corrects him.</p><p>“I just needed to find inspiration.”</p><p>“Have you succeeded?”</p><p>“Yes, but you didn’t let me watch.”</p><p>Geralt nudges his side with his elbow. </p><p>“Leave them alone.”</p><p>“I’d write a beautiful ballad about their love, but they would kill me,” Jaskier utters, staring at the ceiling. “Isn’t it great?”</p><p>And Geralt says,</p><p>“Enough. Sleep.”</p><p>Jaskier murmurs something into the pillow. He can’t keep his tongue behind his teeth even when he’s sleeping. </p><p>Geralt looks through the window again, it’s like a black hole to the sea. The sea’s not calm, and the starlight draws outlandish patterns on its surface. And then Geralt sees the ships, as black as the night itself; not drakkars, the ones with the suns on the sails. They’re moving almost soundlessly, but the splashing of the waves outs their plans. Geralt reaches for his swords, and shakes Jaskier awake. </p><p>“Get the fuck up!”</p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Hide,” Geralt hisses at him. “Go to the basement and stay there.”</p><p>Jaskier sobers up instantly, scrambling to sit up and rubbing his eyes. </p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>“The Nilfgaardian army happened.”</p><p>Jaskier presses his palm to his lips to seal his scream inside. Geralt doesn’t have time to lead Jaskier so his hiding place, running to the window again; he hears Yennefer and Triss’ voices in the hallway — they’re cursing loudly, and the ships are tucked to the shore. </p><p>There are the two sorcerers. </p><p>Geralt knows both of them, he feels the magic they use to climb up the hills along with the soldiers; Jaskier is still standing there behind Geralt when the arrow of the spell hits the window, sending the shards of glass flying in different directions. Jaskier jumps away and falls on the floor, covering his head with his hands. Geralt shoots Aard into the broken window and sees the bodies falling off the cliff. Not bad for the beginning; more weapons come to action once dozens and dozens of the Nilfgaardian soldiers run to the castle with their swords bare and with their bloodthirst blinding them — they’re itching to kill the witcher and dance on his corpse afterwards. You either unite with them or die. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t want to unite with anyone.</p><p>And then the explosion comes. </p><p>The ceiling shudders along with the floor, and the stone wall splits in two, spitting out a mess of debris and dust; Geralt turns to the hallway just to shove Jaskier into it before the side of the castle collapses. His ears are clogged, and Jaskier won’t stop coughing as they make their way through the ruins. </p><p>“It’s Vilgefortz and Rience,” Yennefer rasps out, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Couldn’t miss their chance to bite off a chunk of the Nilfgaardian pie.” </p><p>Triss throws the spell at the soldier right in front of her, but it bounces off of his shield, nearly hitting her in the head. Triss cusses and sends another spell. It hits the man in the neck, leaving a gash there; the edges of the wound are well-fried so the blood congeals immediately. Triss doesn’t like to make the mess. And Yennefer’s strategy of fighting is quite opposite — she’s tossing the spells and signs left and right, leaving mangled bodies lying in tight rows on the floor. Geralt crosses the swords with one of the soldiers, knocking his helmet off within the first few seconds and chopping his ear off — it smacks against the ground like a wet cloth. The man wails loudly, dropping his weapon and almost shoving his fingers into the hole where his ear was. This is when the death meets him. Geralt is still aware of Jaskier hiding behind his back — the easiest target, but probably the luckiest — he squats down then the Nilfgaardian dagger swishes right above his head. Geralt whips around and digs his sword into the opponent’s chest, pushing Jaskier to the wall. He’s not a fighter, he hasn’t been lying. Geralt can feel his fear, can smell it again in his sweat, but his heart and his head are cold. </p><p>Yennefer throws a fireball at the figure fleeing to her.</p><p>“Careful!” she yells as the ball suddenly changes its trajectory.</p><p>Geralt raises his sword and cuts the globe of energy, making it dissipate in the air. The war is always so unbearably loud — there’s the sound of the blades clanking against each other, the rattling of magic bombs exploding and ripping off the human’s feet and other body parts. The war is stinky — there’s the specific odor of magic mixed with ash, blood and bowels; and the war is ugly. Bodies and bones, cracked skulls and jagged wounds, this is a horrific act of art for poisoned minds. </p><p>“Is this how we’re gonna die?”</p><p>Geralt is surprised that Jaskier is still alive. He didn’t expect that, he can say. Jaskier’s hair is matted with crimson mess, there’s a cut in his bruised eyebrow — he was standing too close to Geralt’s last Aard. </p><p>“You’re not gonna die.” </p><p>Triss runs to the stairs, there’s the blood trickles down the side of her head as the castle keeps crumbling  like wet pergament. Geralt feels a familiar twist in his knee but ignores it; this is not the first time when his leg is about to give out during the fight. And then he spots Rience standing on top of the stairs and shoots him with the spell — but there’s a protective shield around him, so he remains unharmed, he jumps off the railings, and Geralt rushes after him, at the same time pushing a useless Jaskier at Yennefer. </p><p>“Take him out of here!” Geralt growls, though he knows this is pointless. </p><p>Jaskier is just a weight on his shoulders, and he banishes these thoughts as he runs after Rience into yet another dark hall.</p><p>Rience stops.     </p><p>Geralt slits another throat. </p><p>He’s wading through the army when he spots a slight movement on his left, a deadly spell flying his way — he manages to block it, but it leaves a red trail on his forearm and a burn on his chest as his hot armor sticks to his body. The air smells like broiled meat. Geralt clenches his teeth with a hiss, pursuing the one who attacked him — a sorcerer whose face is uglified to the point it looks like a mask. Vilgefortz. Geralt uses Aard to crash down the wall and block his path, but the sorcerer just disappears from his sight. And then there’s a sharp pain in his side, Geralt holds his breath not to scream as he sees the sword floating above the ground by itself. It was another magical trick, the blade of the sword went right through the armor, slashing it like butter. Geralt can still see the weapons all pointed at him as Vilgefortz slowly materializes in front of him, wiping the tip of a bloodied sword on Geralt’s black pants. He got caught in the trap like a damn rookie.</p><p>“You’re not gonna die,” Vilgefortz says mockingly. “Is that what you told your little bard? You’re not gonna <em> die, </em> Geralt,” he repeats. </p><p>There are the soldiers holding Geralt’s arms behind his back so he can’t even apply pressure to the wound under his ribs, letting it bleed freely. Rience cracks his knuckles. </p><p>“We’ll kill them while you’re watching the show,” he says, watery eyes blinking as he pushes the sword closer to Geralt’s chin. </p><p>Geralt’s being forced to the ground, small rocks scrape his knees, and Vilgefortz kicks him in his injured side. Geralt bites his tongue until it bleeds, copper fills his mouth. Another kick makes him hack up red mucus and spit it out onto Rience’s boots. His consciousness is unsteady, vision clouded. He hears Yennefer’s voice as he gets kicked again, and his head lolls to his shoulder, but a hand yanks at his hair. </p><p>“Don’t sleep,” Vilgefortz coos. </p><p>“Fuck you!” Geralt wriggles in the grasp, his shoulders crack, and the blood now forms a thick stream.        </p><p>He’s somehow pleased with how terrible Vilgefortz’s face looks — a purple mess with a fake eye held in the socket by golden clamps. All scarred, burnt and lacking a big chunk of both lips after his last encounter with Geralt ages ago. Geralt urges himself not to pass out on him, he can’t expose himself to these villains even more. He focuses on his pain that is supposed to knock him out, he tries to transform pain into energy to keep himself awake. He might free both of his arms if he jerks hard enough. </p><p>Breathing hurts. </p><p>His liver is most likely damaged since he’s gotten kicked repeatedly, vision blurred as he looks down at the wound. The blood is pooling underneath his knee. </p><p>“Do you know what I’m gonna do with your whores and with your son of a bitch?” Rience asks.</p><p>“They’ll kill you before you even look at them,” Geralt wheezes out, speech is not as furious as he wants it to be. </p><p>He feels Yennefer’s presence although he doesn’t see her — she could’ve made herself invisible as well, but Vilgefortz is probably able to see through the shields. He’s gotten more powerful; Geralt wouldn’t have thought that the almost-death might be a good motivation to improve one’s magical skills. Except for when you’re losing the battle with the witcher you loath. Geralt grits his teeth at these thoughts since he can’t move, since he might bleed there to death. His body goes limp for a second, only to show the soldiers that he’s not a threat, and once he feels the grasp on him loosen, he makes a fast jerk forward, Aarding both Vilgefortz and Rience off his way. Something pops in his side, vision doubles as he falls behind a crashed wall and doesn’t get up anymore. Through the darkness and painful bursts in his chest and in his guts, he feels a cold hand slapping his cheek, then another, and then there’s a flash of violet light. </p><p>Everything falls into the void.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>stay safe everyone~</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I killed you in my dream.”</p><p>“I’m flattered you’re having dreams about me.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b> <em>Posada, region Dol Blathanna</em> </b> </p><p>For a brief moment he’s sure he’s dead.</p><p>The pain spreads from his right side to his chest, hot and pulsating, but his other senses are still muffled. Geralt cracks his eyes open just to realize that he’s lying by the roadside, all covered in dust and grime. The morning sun tosses its thin rays on the ground, burning his eyelids. Geralt hears the voices and tries to sit up, but his wound has apparently been reopened; his fingers are all slick as he presses them to the gash under his ribs. </p><p>“Geralt! Lay still,” it’s Jaskier who crouches in front of him first. </p><p>“Where are we?” </p><p>Geralt doesn’t recognize his own voice, it’s too hoarse, his throat is so parched as if he’s swallowed a mouthful of sand. He needs to reach for one of his potions to ease the pain, but he’s too weak, he can’t even raise his arm. Jaskier has to lean closer to hear what he’s saying. Geralt has gotten injured much worse than he thought at first. </p><p>The light hurts his head. </p><p>“Hey! Hey, look at me,” Jaskier caresses his cheekbone, making him blink confusedly. “Triss is going to find a healer — we’re in Posada, can you believe?! A place where all of it started for me. How ironic. She said something about the elves, and Yennefer portalled us to the forest… Again.”</p><p>Jaskier can’t stop talking, probably just distracting Geralt from pain.</p><p>“Where’s Yenn?”</p><p>“She headed to Aretuza, I believe… Or she couldn’t portal all of us here, so she opened her magical window and threw us there. Oh, I know you didn’t like her plan!” he gently pushes Geralt back to the ground. “Don’t move. Triss tried to bandage the wound while you were unconscious. You lost a lot of blood, she said, and the scar’s gonna be huge, but I think it would suit you,” Jaskier’s face is as white as the snow as he looks down at the wound. “Oh gods, it’s bleeding again.”</p><p>“Don’t look.” </p><p>Jaskier isn’t doing fine as well; there are thick black rings under his eyes, his right temple is a mess of blood with his hair sticking to the cut. There’s a badly washed off red trail on his cheek, running down to his neck and permeating the collar of his shirt. </p><p>“Triss left me there to watch after you,” Jaskier says, averting his gaze. “There’s some sort of a protective shield around us, I believe. A circle drawn on the ground, and we’re safe while we’re inside of it.”</p><p>Geralt nods. His shirt is completely soaked, breathing ragged so he can barely put his words into sentences. </p><p>“Jaskier,” he manages. “Potions in my bag. “Kiss” and “Swallow”. I need them.”</p><p>Jaskier looks at him, half horrified half surprised. </p><p>“Kiss and swallow? What do you want from me? I mean, I can do whatever you need if this is some sort of a ritual—” </p><p>Geralt lets out a moan of despair. </p><p>“Potions, Jaskier.”</p><p>His organs fail, lungs collapse as well; Jaskier fumbles with his bag, taking the bottles out and showing them to Geralt although his vision is all blurred. Geralt recognizes the two he needs at the moment — he’s only mixed them once, when he was younger. <em> Much younger, </em>and his system wasn’t as poisoned as it is now — the potions don’t work on him sometimes, or the aftermath hits him way too hard. </p><p>Jaskier’s lips wobble as he tries to smile.</p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t answer, taking the bottles with his shaking hands and biting down the corks. His jaws hurt, as much as the rest of his body as he pours the potions down his throat. His blood is boiling, and his head is about to explode as his neck tenses up. There’s a convulsion racking through his muscles as he gasps for breath, seeing multicolored splashes in front of his eyes as the pain in his side doubles. He has to wait through the worst of it. If Triss is going to find his corpse here, Geralt hopes that she will take care of Jaskier afterwards; Yennefer’s plans might be odd, but the elves are the best healers on the Continent. </p><p>“Geralt? Geralt?”</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>“Oh, you’re clearly not.” </p><p>Geralt glares at Jaskier, but Jaskier squeezes his hand. Geralt’s consciousness is still threatening to leave him, but the potions finally dull the pain; it won’t take long before it returns, he thinks bitterly. He needs a healer, but all he’s got is Jaskier pressing a piece of bloodied cloth to his side, his lute is lying on the ground beside him as if he’s forgotten about it at all.</p><p>“Geralt, please, don’t leave me.” </p><p>Geralt doesn’t hear him. He loses the count of time before opening his eyes again; he’s suddenly aware of the footsteps approaching them. Geralt groans, his body is numb except for his side, a snake of pain is coiled there, sinking its fangs into his flesh repeatedly. </p><p>“He’s still alive!” it’s Triss, running towards him and Jaskier. There’s the soot all over her face and all over her dress, her hands are bloodied. “Chireadan! Toruviel! Come here, please!” </p><p>“Elves?” </p><p>Jaskier sounds so excitedly surprised as if he’s never seen an elf before. Triss waves her arm and steps into the magic circle, immediately falling to her knees and checking Geralt’s wound. </p><p>“Oh, Geralt, why did you take them?” she points at the empty bottles.</p><p>“Could not have survived without them.”</p><p>His tongue feels swollen, his mouth is too dry; out of the corner of his eye he sees the two elves staring down at him, then at Jaskier. </p><p>“The Butcher of Blaviken,” Toruviel says, her lips twitch in disgust. “And his elven bantling. Of course, you thought no one would know who you are, you <em> dh’oine’wedd y an tirth?”* </em></p><p>“Elven?” this concerns Jaskier more than being called a bantling. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Stop pretending,” Toruviel snaps at him. </p><p>Chireadan holds her by the hand when she rushes towards Jaskier. </p><p>“He doesn’t know.”</p><p>“The human part of him is good at lying.”</p><p>“He’s not lying,” Chireadan gets on his knees next to Triss and examines Geralt’s wound. “The witcher must be transported to my shack immediately. It’s not that far from here.”</p><p>Toruviel shakes her head. </p><p>“We can’t welcome the one who took a part in the Great Cleansing. And this bastard,” she nods at Jaskier. </p><p>Geralt tries to sit up again, and, with the help of Jaskier and Chireadan, he gets up on his feet. The world lurches, Geralt’s vision goes black for a second. They walk slowly, with Triss holding Geralt’s bag and Jaskier’s lute, and with Toruviel cursing under her breath in Elder. Geralt is grateful to the potions still circulating in his system, because he can walk almost on his own, he feels a bit better although it’s just an illusion. They walk through the forest, and there’s the cave in the hill — a rather comfortable one with the floor covered with moss and furs. </p><p>Toruviel kicks the small round stone until it smacks against the rough wall. </p><p>“This is how we’re obligated to live because of you. Do you like our golden palaces?”</p><p>Geralt falls down like a sack, the pain returns in full force, and he feels like he might vomit. But the potions are consumed, and his stomach has been empty for days. The boulders are flattening Geralt’s chest, all invisible but heavy, and his inflamed joints creak. He can barely breathe when Chireadan strips him off his shirt, letting the stale air touch his wounds. </p><p>“It’s bad.”</p><p>“Tell me it’s not too late, Chireadan,” Triss nearly pleads.</p><p>“It’s never too late.” </p><p>Jaskier checks his lute, looking at its wooden body intently; Toruviel rips it out of his hands, squeezing its neck and screaming,</p><p>“Your people stole it from us!”</p><p>“No? What? We didn’t!”</p><p>And Jaskier makes a terrible mistake just <em> touching </em> her. Toruviel’s reflexes are sharp and fast — her bony knee hits Jaskier in the groin. He yelps and bends over, leaning against the wall and biting down his lip. Toruviel rolls her eyes and lays the lute down onto the table. One gap in Jaskier’s charade is filled, Geralt thinks blankly. The fact that he might lose the last drop of his life doesn’t let him think some more.  </p><p>Chireadan looks at Jaskier and says, </p><p>“She lost her sister yesterday. Forgive her.”</p><p>“My condolences!” Jaskier winces. “Oh gods, somebody’s gonna have to tell my dear mother that she’s never having grandkids.”</p><p>“So that your males will never seduce the elves.”</p><p>Still covering his groin with his palms, Jaskier asks,</p><p>“Toruviel, dear, can you please tell me why do you hate me so much? I’m pretty sure that we’ve never had any… Encounters in the past. Please, be honest.”</p><p>Toruviel’s eyes darken.</p><p>“One of your mother’s ancestors got an elf pregnant, I can feel the history in your blood. She had to leave the camp, because she couldn’t stand the curse inside of her. She eventually died.”</p><p>Jaskier whispers,</p><p>“But my mother, she.... I didn’t know, I swear.” </p><p>“She didn’t want to lose her sweet little everything.”</p><p>And Toruviel walks out of the cave.</p><p>“You’re still mostly a human, Jaskier,” Chireadan adds, cleaning Geralt’s wound. He can’t even talk now as the weakness pins him down. “From what I’m seeing, I can say that you’re gonna be aging very slowly, and you’ve possibly adopted the resistance to some spells and poisons.”  </p><p>“The succubus,” Geralt grumbles. “Jaskier saw her hooves and horns.”</p><p>Chireadan looks at Jaskier with respect.</p><p>“Not every elf can do that.”</p><p>“I’m just talented.” </p><p>“You’re gonna live a long life if you stay among humans. You weren’t trained to survive like elves or witchers.”</p><p>“You don’t know my father and the vapor nest of the mansion I was raised in,” Jaskier smirks. “I know everything about surviving.” </p><p>He’s not an unknown monster — Geralt huffs out a breath. He doesn’t have to kill this annoying bard.      </p><p>Maybe he says that out loud.</p><p>His fever is cruel. It messes up with his mind when the night falls on the ground, and Geralt doesn’t know what is real anymore. There’s a thick smell of the herbs in the air: sage and verbena with the notes of white myrtle. Each breath Geralt takes is a torture, lungs tight and his chest feels like it’s been sliced open. Chireadan keeps talking to him, lulling him to sleep with his spells, but the pain is too strong for him to ignore it; Geralt is lying on the furs with his torso exposed to the healer, with his side being stitched up. There’s the infection spreading in his veins, making him rot inside, his blood can’t neutralize the toxicity of the potions anymore. There’s a wet cloth placed on his forehead, water runs down his temples along with cold sweat; he blacks out for a moment, but then he’s wide awake again, peering into the black ceiling of the cave covered with the green mold. </p><p>“Is he gonna make it?”</p><p>“It’s hard to say,” Chireadan responds to Jaskier. “His liver has been damaged, and the burn on his chest was such a strong spell.”</p><p>“Any prognosis?”</p><p>“Not yet.”</p><p>Chireadan mixes the herbs in a small cup, holding it above a meager fire before offering it to Geralt; Jaskier helps him hold his head up as he drinks, nearly coughing at how hot it is. His throat burns, and his stomach protests, but he keeps the elixir down, coughing slightly as his spit dribbles down his chin. If the clash at Skellige was his last fight ever, he would have preferred to die with more grace. </p><p>“You’ve been hurt too,” he wheezes out. Jaskier shrugs. </p><p>“It’s just a scratch. A very, very badly aching scratch,” he presses his fingers to his busted temple as if he’s just noticed it. He looks surprised when he finds his fingertips bloodied. “Ow. <em> You </em> look like I need a drink,” he adds with a sad smile. </p><p>Geralt breathes out through his nose instead of laughing — the way Jaskier reacts to things is just ridiculous. He still refuses to pass out as he glances at Geralt’s wound, barely patched up with black threads soaked in some foul-smelling medical solution, and the blood hasn’t been wiped off of his body completely. So maybe Jaskier’s delicate essence is not ready for such views. Triss comes and checks him as well, cleaning the сut and bandaging his head.</p><p>“It’s too deep. I’d recommend to stitch it up,” Triss says. “Jaskier?! Jaskier?” </p><p>She sounds worried, and Geralt turns his head to figure out what’s going on — and he can only see Triss holding an opened bottle of potion right underneath Jaskier’s nose; he gags slightly and blinks at her. </p><p>Triss pats his shoulder. </p><p>“No stitches then. The bleeding has been staunched.” </p><p>“Thank gods,” Jaskier mumbles, rubbing his face with his palms. “What about you?”</p><p>Triss smiles. </p><p>“Don’t even worry about me. You need to regain your strength.”</p><p>“And maybe stop fainting at the sight of blood,” Geralt chuckles and it costs him a spasm in his abdomen.</p><p>“Is that just me or there’s been some buzzing? Did you hear it?” Jaskier fends off. “I’m glad that you’re awake enough to think that your jokes are funny.”</p><p>“My jokes are always funny.”</p><p>“Oh right.”</p><p>Again, Jaskier smiles as if Geralt’s comment hasn’t hurt his dignity. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Hours pass, Chireadan keeps fighting for Geralt’s wellbeing with all his might. Geralt can’t promise him that he’s not going to die as he tosses and turns, all feverish and sweaty, with pins and needles in his side; Chireadan puts a compress on his chest.</p><p>“Now sleep.” </p><p>Geralt’s mind is all floaty again, and he lets the sleep take over; blackness creeps at the edges of his dream. He sees the forest at night, the insects crawl up and down his skin. Geralt feels the stench of blood, of a murder as he wanders through the bushes, branches keep hitting his face, hurting his eyes and his mouth, getting stuck in his throat. He bares his sword as the medallion hums, reverberating through his ribs, and his night vision catches the chunks of his surroundings. </p><p>“Jaskier?” Geralt calls. “Where are you?” he cuts off the branches obstructing his vision. “Jaskier?” </p><p>The forest is as silent as it always happens to be when the great evil is coming. Geralt pushes his body farther into the depths of black-green leaves and grass, and sees the body lying on the ground, a naked man with his guts spilled out — and there’s the creature with its back hunched, having its feast greedily, slurping and chomping the flesh and innards. </p><p>The tip of Geralt’s sword is pressed right between the creature’s shoulder blades.</p><p>And it whips around. </p><p>“Fuck!” Geralt exhales as he faces the monster. “Jaskier!”</p><p>This creature is <em> not </em> Jaskier. Not anymore, at least — its eyes are as black as Geralt’s when he takes his potions, and its teeth are sharpened and bloodied. Its chin is stained red, lips stretched into a grin. </p><p>“You can’t kill me,” says not-Jaskier. Its fancy clothes are stained with its victim’s guts.  </p><p>Geralt’s hand shakes, he can’t aim for the creature’s neck. And it moves closer and closer, and suddenly Geralt can’t run as his feet get stuck in a swamp. He’s sinking, and non-Jaskier keeps mocking him, playing with its fingers, long and thin with the nails turned to ugly claws.</p><p>“You’ll never hurt your little bard, am I right? You’ve got a soft spot for him.”</p><p>“You’re not Jaskier!” Geralt howls and swings the sword before his mind tells him otherwise. A disfigured head falls off as he slashes the skull in a half, dead black eyes keep staring at him and the body turns to a bloody fountain with only the bottom jaw sticking to the neck. The corpse falls into the dirt, and Geralt falls to his knees and howls. </p><p>“Geralt! Geralt, it’s just me!”</p><p>Geralt is blinded by the pain, so he doesn’t see the one whose face he hits with his forehead.</p><p>“Oh gods, Geralt, ow!”</p><p>“Hold him still!” </p><p>“I can’t, he’s too strong—”</p><p>Geralt comes to, feeling much worse than he thought he would. He can’t focus on the faces looming above him, he can only turn his head to the side and puke up saliva and bile. </p><p>“Good, good, his fever breaks.”</p><p>Geralt spits and looks up, more coherent. He doesn’t like what he sees. Here’s Chireadan, utterly terrified and holding a needle in his hand again; here’s Jaskier with his nostrils pinched, blood stains his upper lip. Triss sits next to Geralt, pinning his arms to the ground. </p><p>“You had a very, very bad dream, and I felt like your savior until you punched me in the face,” Jaskier explains, still pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You thought I was a demon.”</p><p>“I killed you in my dream.”</p><p>“I’m flattered you’re having dreams about me.”</p><p>Geralt breathes heavily — Jaskier’s nails are extremely short so he can play the lute comfortably, his teeth are of a normal shape, and his eyes are blue. </p><p>“You kept turning and the stitches broke,” Triss explains. “You lost a lot of blood. Again. The only good thing about it is that you got rid of toxins.”</p><p>“I didn’t know you’re having nightmares,” Toruviel pipes in. She’s skinning the rabbit, and Geralt can only wonder whether it’s a meal for the elves only or not. </p><p>“Well, congratulate yourself on such enlightenment,” Jaskier sounds truly irritated as if he’s Geralt’s lawyer. </p><p>Toruviel keeps boycotting him.</p><p>Geralt looks at the pile of bloodied rags lying on furs, and he’s surprised as he sees Jaskier washing them in a wooden bucket. He rubs his hands furiously, hanging the clean ones to dry on the thick rope in the corner of the cave. Geralt is too hot, but his mind is less feverish now — it granted him the worst nightmare he’s had within the past few years, and he can’t stop looking at Jaskier now to calm himself down. The only quality he respects him for is his simplicity, he’s not holding any grudges, it seems. Not for the cut on his neck Geralt left on him during their first meeting, not for a busted nose. He nods at Geralt and smiles, humming a song under his breath as he keeps washing Geralt’s blood off the rags. </p><p>Geralt closes his eyes and sees his dream again. </p><p>Triss offers him a waterskin, and Geralt drinks greedily, just realizing how dehydrated he is; his stomach seems bottomless, the water doesn’t satisfy his thirst. </p><p>“Enough,” Triss pries the waterskin away from his dry lips. “Wait a bit and you can get more.” </p><p>Geralt winces at the pain in the stitches. </p><p>“I’m holding you back,” he says. “You should be going.”</p><p>“You don’t want to leave him alone,” Triss points at Jaskier.</p><p>“He can stay here if he wants.”  </p><p>“He does?” Triss raises her eyebrows sceptically. “Doubt it.”</p><p>Geralt throws his forearm over his eyes. Now when he feels a bit better, this situation is really pissing him off. He hates feeling weak after being trained all his life not to give up. His side is stitched again, there’s no sign of inflammation, the skin is pale, a bit reddened on the edges. When his vision clears, he sees the row of bottles standing on the boulder, a few cups and amulets. He rubs his eyes, trying to sit up, but Triss stops him, putting a fresh compress onto the wound. </p><p>“You saved my life,” Geralt says to both Triss and Chireadan. </p><p>“Your liver has been severely damaged. It’s gonna take a while for it to heal,” Chireadan waves a bouquet of herbs in the air. </p><p>“How long?”</p><p>“A week, at best.”</p><p>“So now I’m stuck here?”</p><p>“Your friend’s head is busted as well. Think about him, he’s mostly a human. Although his elven roots will help him recover quicker.” </p><p>“Yeah, I don’t want to drag his unconscious ass off the battlefield,” Geralt says. “No offence, Jaskier, but from what I see, you’re so fond of fainting at the most inappropriate moments.”</p><p>As expected, Jaskier finds the right answer in seconds.</p><p>“Whoa, you’re talking in longer sentences now. This is definitely my influence, Geralt, I’m so proud of you!”</p><p>And he plunges another set of bandages into the bucket. </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>Fever dreams don’t leave him alone — this one doesn’t seem like a nightmare; Geralt is not sure if he’s still sleeping at all. He feels somebody’s presence, he sees the figure sitting on the furs next to him. Everyone is sleeping — Jaskier is the one who’s lying close enough to him, hugging his lute in his sleep. Chireadan and Toruviel sleep next to the table with vials on it, and Triss is buried in furs with only her curly hair peeking out from underneath the covers. </p><p>Geralt wants to sit up, but his body is paralyzed and so is his tongue. </p><p>A man puts his hand over the damp cloth on Geralt’s forehead. </p><p>“You should visit Cintra,” he says. “The law of surprise, Geralt.” </p><p>Geralt can’t even blink, staring at the man with white hair tied with a leather lace, with yellow irises and with his face lined with wrinkles. It’s Vesemir, his mentor, and Geralt can’t believe his eyes, he has too many questions, but he can’t make his mouth move, as if he’s hypnotized. </p><p>“Cintra,” Vesemir repeats. “The war is coming. Save the child of surprise.” </p><p>Geralt nods, the only move he’s allowed to perform. </p><p>“Don’t forget about the destiny,” Vesemir says. Then he touches Geralt’s forehead again, his consciousness fades instantly. </p><p>When Geralt opens his eyes, Vesemir is gone.      </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>As Chireadan said, Geralt’s recovery is a very slow process. And this is where Geralt begins to admire Jaskier’s patience — he washes the rags, brings the buckets of water for Triss despite his exhaustion and intolerance to the sight of blood. He assists Chireadan as he changes the compress on Geralt’s side, and his face turns light green, but he doesn’t pass out, just screwing his eyes shut and swallowing hard every so often.</p><p>Geralt shouldn’t be pitying him, but he does. Jaskier’s head is still bandaged.</p><p>It takes two more days for Geralt to be able to stomach light food; Jaskier is a good cook and he’s always coming up with the new recipes for the same rabbits, spicing them different ways. He and Toruviel go for fishing and return with the good catch — and they’re talking now, actually talking without trying to kill each other.</p><p>The flame is low as Jaskier is doing his cooking magic with the pot where the soup is boiling. </p><p>“Oh yes,” he closes his eyes as he tastes it. “That’s gonna be great.”</p><p>“Who taught you to cook?” Triss asks. “I didn’t expect that from you.”</p><p>And Jaskier says,</p><p>“My mother. She knew I’d need it. But I’m never cooking just for myself, because it’s… Boring. And if I cook a few more days I’m gonna forget what the lute is.”</p><p>Toruviel pushes him in the shoulder.</p><p>“I bet you’re dreaming about it when you sleep.” </p><p>“You better not to know <em> what </em> I’m dreaming about in my sleep,” Jaskier cuts her off, somewhat jokingly. </p><p>“Ew, gross.”</p><p>“It’s all in your head, darling!..”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt stops him. “Your soup.”</p><p>Jaskier drops the spoon and takes the pot off the flame. </p><p>“Right. Here it is!”</p><p>They eat in silence, because the soup is way too good to talk about it. The fish is spicy and juicy, with its bones leaving its body easily. There are some vegetables from their last stash and bay leaves along with black pepper. </p><p>They eat right from the pot, finishing it in seconds.  </p><p>And then, Jaskier plays the lute, and Geralt can say that he almost missed it. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Vesemir’s words about the destiny in Cintra never leave Geralt’s mind. He doesn’t know if that was just a dream, or a vision, or a hallucination. He can’t let himself be this weak when the whole Continent is about to turn to the Nilfgaardian Empire. </p><p>When Geralt crawls out of the cave for the first time, he feels woozy and sick, and the stitches in his side throb with pain. He heads to the river to wash away the blood and grim off his body, to breathe. To think. Just to be alone. It’s not that far from their hiding place, the river is shallow and thin. The flow is not that fast, and Geralt thinks back of Jaskier’s fishing success — he might really be useful. Or just lucky. Geralt supports himself against the tree, slowly sitting down onto the rock. He hasn’t regained all the blood he lost yet. </p><p>“Geralt?” </p><p>Geralt pretends he doesn’t hear anything. </p><p>“Come on, I know you hear me.” </p><p>Geralt reluctantly turns to the voice. </p><p>“Jaskier, what are you doing here?”</p><p>“Uh, taking care of my sick friend?” </p><p>“Go back to the cave.”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs. </p><p>“The elves hate me.” </p><p>“Let me guess, maybe it’s all because of your big mouth?”</p><p>Geralt didn’t mean to snap, but Jaskier doesn’t notice it, flopping down onto the stone next to him. </p><p>“I can help you if you want to bathe,” Jaskier offers, cupping the water in his palm.</p><p>“Do you see a bathtub here?”</p><p>“You know what I mean, my sarcastic friend.”    </p><p>Geralt’s body is itching, blood forms a crust on the skin all around the wound, sick aureoles of bruises circle around the burn on his chest. And, worst of all, he’s still dizzy. </p><p>“How’s your head?”</p><p>“Better,” Jaskier touches the lump on his temple, covered with his bangs. “Much better. Triss said it was a big luck that my skull didn’t get caved in.” </p><p>Jaskier shivers. He’s still pale. Geralt can smell his fear, but Jaskier is not afraid of him; this is the fear of the unknown. Geralt unbuttons his shirt and tosses it onto the grass. </p><p>“Use this to clean the stitches,” he tells Jaskier. </p><p>Jaskier nods, taking the shirt and wetting it in the river.</p><p>“Chireadan was right when he said that you shouldn’t be roaming the forest on your own.” </p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>“Sure.” </p><p>Geralt looks at the water turning red, holding his hair up so Jaskier can wash his neck and his aching shoulders; the burn on his chest looks much better than the wound from Vilgefortz’s sword. Black magic’s damage is the worst. So Geralt lets Jaskier wash his torso with the cool water, relaxing a little when Jaskier massages his shoulders and his back — Jaskier’s fingers are calloused and long, tickling Geralt’s skin.</p><p>“These scars…” Jaskier begins. </p><p>“None of your business.” </p><p>“You should definitely talk more.” </p><p>Geralt huffs in response. </p><p>“I know you like it,” Jaskier says, rubbing Geralt’s neck. “I was told that I’m good at massaging rigid muscles.” </p><p>“I doubt that the noblewomen you used to sleep with know what “rigid muscles” even means.”</p><p>And he turns to meet Jaskier’s eyes just to see the blush on his cheeks. Finally, he doesn’t look like a corpse anymore.</p><p>“You’re underestimating me, Geralt.” </p><p>He feels more alive now, although the fatigue never leaves his bones — but the image of Vesemir next to the furs is so vivid that Geralt says,</p><p>“We’re heading to Cintra.” </p><p>Jaskier stops rubbing his shoulder blades. </p><p>“Why?” his voice is low. </p><p>“Because of the debt I owe,” Geralt says, “The law of surprise. A child,” he jerks his hand when Jaskier touches a wide scar crossing his spine. “Vesemir said I must save that child.”</p><p>“A child? Like, <em> your </em> child? You’re gonna be a father, Geralt?!” Jaskier is far too excited for the one who shouldn’t be, he covers his mouth with his palm and laughs. “What about Vesemir?” he asks, suddenly serious. </p><p>“I saw him,” Geralt shakes off the drop of pink water off his palm. “I wanted to ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but I couldn’t move. It was… He was just in my mind, but…”</p><p>“But it’s one of your witchery things?” </p><p>“Yes. I’m gonna tell the others that we’re leaving Dol Blathanna at dawn.”</p><p>Jaskier fidgets with Geralt’s shirt in his hands. </p><p>“So I’m like… Am I the first with whom you shared your thoughts?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Oh gods, I feel so honored!” Jaskier sticks his tongue out.</p><p>And he washes Geralt’s shirt in the river before offering it back to Geralt — blood is not noticeable on the black fabric, Geralt throws it over his forearm and thanks him. </p><p>“You’d do the same for me,” Jaskier replies. </p><p>Geralt feels a tinge of conscience in his chest as he leans on Jaskier and they walk back to the camp. </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>Jaskier is not excited about heading to Cintra. Geralt feels his mood change once he just mentioned the child of surprise. They wade through the bushes, and they hear the voices coming from the cave. </p><p>Geralt recognizes all of them. </p><p>“...I’m taking you, I need you, Triss!” </p><p>“Yennefer,” Jaskier says before forcing himself to smile. “Yennefer! You look as good as always!..”</p><p>“Don’t try to bribe me, bard,” Yennefer waves at him. “Geralt! You’re alive though you don’t look like you are. Anyway, it’s a bit better than bleeding out.”</p><p>She smiles, her violet eyes gleam brighter. </p><p>“I had a vision about Vesemir,” Geralt says. It suddenly sounds odd. </p><p>Triss cocks her head, listening and taking Yennefer’s hand in hers. </p><p>“A vision then?”</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt nods. “He said that I must go to Cintra and find… Something there. A child of surprise.” </p><p>“And why didn’t you bother to tell us earlier?” Yennefer narrows her eyes. </p><p>Jaskier takes a step forward.</p><p>“Uh, let me guess, maybe because you weren’t there?”</p><p>Yennefer smirks. </p><p>“You told him?”</p><p>“I did,” Geralt raises his chin up. “Because he listens.” </p><p>“I’m still here,” Jaskier mumbles. </p><p>“So we’re not following my plan anymore?” Yennefer looks at Triss. “I felt some strong magic when I portalled myself here. So maybe your “vision” was just a friendly advice.”</p><p>“Where are you going now?” Geralt asks. </p><p>“I picked a couple of contracts in Lyria and Gulet. So Triss and I are not gonna get bored after parting ways with you. You’ve got your life in good hands,” she points at Jaskier. “Just kidding. Try to not get yourself killed.” </p><p>“I need my horse,” Geralt says. </p><p>“I can portal you two straight to Cintra.” </p><p>“No,” Geralt and Jaskier protest in unison. </p><p>Yennefer pouts. </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>“It’s exhausting,” Geralt says. For him, it feels like walking for a week non-stop, and if teleporting may save some time, it definitely does not save his energy. And Jaskier looks like he’s about to throw up each time when Yennefer talks about portals. Geralt understands him. </p><p>“Try and call for your horse then,” Yennefer offers. </p><p>Geralt shrugs and whistles. All of his horses had been trained like that — and he hears a measured clattering of the hooves against the ground, and then he sees —</p><p>“Roach!” </p><p>The horse hurries to him, nuzzling his neck and huffing as he pats her between her ears. She looks healthy with her brown fur slick and oily, with her mane brushed and clean. She then totters to Jaskier and shoves her muzzle to his shoulder. He stumbles back, laughing. </p><p>“Good horse, good Roach.”</p><p>“You even let him touch the horse?” Yennefer pipes up. “Your horses always hated me.”</p><p>“She just likes my voice,” Jaskier says proudly.</p><p>“How fun.” </p><p>Yennefer opens another portal.</p><p>“See you soon,” she says, and Triss waves her hand. Then, both of them dive into the violet mess of an opened portal, and it disappears leaving just a haze in the air. </p><p>“Did she… Teleport <em> our </em> horse, Geralt?” </p><p>“Something like that.”</p><p>Geralt is too tired to correct Jaskier that it’s <em> his </em> horse. </p><p>“We need to say goodbye to Chireadan,” Jaskier says. “He was so kind to take care of you. We can’t just leave like that while the elves are hunting.” </p><p>Geralt thinks that maybe he’s right — Chireadan was the most adequate elf Geralt has met in his entire life. So he lets Roach munch the grass, while Jaskier plays yet another song about sex. It doesn’t take long to wait for the elves’ return — Jaskier is on the second verse when they get back, holding the seine packed with fishes. </p><p>“You’re leaving,” Chireadan clicks his tongue. “Don’t pass out in the saddle, witcher.” </p><p>Toruviel suppresses a smirk before speaking to Jaskier,</p><p>“Keep an eye on him, bard.” </p><p>Jaskier puts a hand over his heart. </p><p>“I will.” </p><p>Roach jerks her ears, listening to the sounds of the forest. </p><p>“That sorceress was there again,” Chireadan points out, somewhat sad. “She’s so powerful… And beautiful.”</p><p>“And magically engaged with another beautiful sorceress, so you’re here with no chance, buddy,” Jaskier laughs.</p><p>“Engaged?” Geralt thinks he misheard him.</p><p>“Indeed,” Jaskier nods. “Triss told me. There was some “djinn contract that brought them together” so they are literally the star-crossed lovers from now on. Destiny and such. How ridiculous, Triss said she always thought that Yennefer hates her guts. And yet here they are!..”</p><p>The most eloquent response Geralt can give is a “hm-m.” </p><p>He’s sure the elves are not gonna be missing them. </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>“Why are you taking me with you, Geralt?”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t I?”</p><p>They’ve been walking for hours already, with Geralt riding Roach and with Jaskier plodding after them. He’s been playing the lute and singing his cheerful ballads since they left Chireadan’s cave. Been doing everything to just annoy Geralt — and Geralt is suddenly not irritated at all, and this is what annoys him the most. But whenever he opens his mouth to comment on Jaskier’s singing, he sees him stumble into the cave with the bucket full of water, sees him washing the bandages and cooking. Acting the same, as if he hasn’t seen Geralt slashing the throats of their enemies and monsters. </p><p>“Geralt, I think our Roach is tired.”</p><p>Geralt loosens the reins, turning back at Jaskier. </p><p>“Roach?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Jaskier takes his waterskin and takes a long sip. “My lungs are burning.”</p><p>“You’ve been screaming for eternity.” </p><p>“That’s art, Geralt.” </p><p>Jaskier sighs and walks after them slowly, with his lute hanging over his shoulder in the case now. Geralt doesn’t feel like he might collapse at any time now, an acute pain in his side is only a slight throbbing now. The witchers’ regeneration is one of their advantages, and Geralt might not even need another potion to make it to Cintra. Although it’s gonna be a long way, and they’re gonna have to find a place to stay overnight. </p><p>Jaskier is silent for the next hour or so, Geralt can hear his heavy breathing as he leads Roach to the water and tells him that they’re going to camp here. </p><p>“Thank god,” Jaskier mutters before falling to the ground.</p><p>Geralt thinks he’s seen him faint to many times already to be worried, but he checks him anyway. Jaskier is, in fact, still conscious, peering into the twilight sky peeking between the trees. </p><p>“You alright?”</p><p>“Just brilliant.” </p><p>His voice is soft and barely audible. </p><p>Geralt uses the sign of Igni to start the fire and boil the water from the river to make a soup with the fishes Chireadan gave them before they left. Definitely the most normal elf, Geralt repeats mentally. They don’t even have to hunt tonight.</p><p>“Geralt?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Yennefer said she picked some contracts. Are you gonna look for some job on our way to Cintra?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>It’s gonna slow them down. But it’s gonna give them some coin. </p><p>“Geralt?”</p><p>“What again?”</p><p>“Do your scars hurt?” </p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Have you ever thought about getting rid of them?”</p><p>“No,” Geralt replies. “They’re all mine. But I’m careful with getting new ones.”</p><p>“Your body is like a map,” Jaskier is more coherent now, reaching for the fire as his teeth chatter. “I bet you’ve gotten hurt in every town on the Continent.”</p><p>“Maybe you’re right.”</p><p>Jaskier is concerned, worried, confused. He falls asleep right after they finish their meal — there’s not enough salt and spices, but Jaskier doesn’t mind. And Geralt simply doesn’t care about what he’s eating — he’s had worse dishes. Geralt looks at the flames dancing in the dark, tangling into weird figures; his insomnia has turned into a chain of nightmares, and sleep doesn’t seem so appealing anymore. He doesn’t want to miss something in reality, and he doesn’t want to see things he’s not supposed to see — a not-Jaskier with fangs and black witchery eyes, disemboweling its victims in the woods. </p><p>He doesn’t know where it comes from. </p><p>Maybe because Jaskier is his friend, because this is how these things work.</p><p>He hasn’t had friends since forever. Since Vesemir disappeared; Geralt thinks about his adventures with the old witcher and smiles a little — there were good days with good money, good ale and good lovers. </p><p>Fuck Nilfgaard. </p><p>“We’re gonna win, Roach,” Geralt says as the horse bows her head and lays it on his shoulder. “We’re gonna protect this idiot while he’s dreaming about naked women,” he chuckles. “Or whatever he wants to dream about.”</p><p>He doesn’t believe a single word he’s saying.</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>He sleeps for a few minutes, and these are the minutes of nightmare — the earth is burning, the smell of meat and blood fills his nostrils, clogs his throat — he wakes up with a start, tasting ash on his teeth. Jaskier is still sleeping, covering his eyes with his sleeve. Geralt looks at him maybe a little too long; Jaskier jerks and sits up, yawning and rubbing his face with his palms. </p><p>“You haven’t slept, have you? Geralt?”</p><p>Geralt remains silent. Jaskier is way too insightful. </p><p>“Nightmares?” </p><p>Geralt gets up off the ground, heading to Roach and tapping her neck. </p><p>“We gotta go.” </p><p>And Jaskier looks at the fire and says,</p><p>“I’m getting them too.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* “you dirty son of a pig”.<br/>i used <a href="https://lingojam.com/TheWitcher%3AElderSpeech">this</a> translator so i don’t know whether it’s correct or not<br/>---<br/>also!!! joey!!! reading the witcher!!! this is the thing i knew i needed</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>